QkTF^. 


on   THE 


CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE. 


A    NOVEL. 


BY 


M.    15.    13KA.DI30N, 

lOTHOn    OF    -'I.ADT    AIDLKV'S    8KOAET,*'    "JOHN    Xi  AUCHMOXT-.- 

•Ain.ouA  n,ovD,"  "thr  lady  lisle,"  \:tc. 


K 1  C  II  MOi\D: 
ATRES    &c    WADE, 

-TltATEI)    M 

I8(>:$. 


DARRELL  MARKHAM; 


CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE 


A.    NOVEL. 


BY 

M.    E.    BRADDON, 

AUTHOR    OF    (:LADY    AUPr.HY's    SECRET,-"    "AURORA    FLOYD,"    "JOHN    MARC:iM,lM'o    tSOACT," 

"  TUB    LADY    L18LE,"    ETC. 


RICHMOND: 
ATTIRES      <5c      WADE, 

rU.V3THATEQ  !f«W9  8TZ1M    PUNH. 

1363. 


DAERELL   MARKHAM; 


>  CAPTAIN    OF    THE    VULTURE. 


CHAPTER  I.— The  Way  to  Marle*  Waters. 

■  No  one  by  the  Highflyer  to-night?'  asked  the  blacksmith  of  Compton-on-the- 
Moor  of  the  weak-eyed  landlord  of  the  Black  Bear,  first  and  greatest  hostelry  iu 
that  parish. 

•  No  ouc  but  Captain  Duke.' 

'What?  the  Captain's  been  up  in  Loudon,  then,  maybe?'  •        > 

'Been  there  three  weeks,  and  over,' replied  the  landlord,  who  seemed  rather' 
of  a  despondent  nature,  and  not  conversationally  inclined.  .  '       t 

'  Ah  '.  urn  !'  said  the  blacksmith  ;  '  three  weeks  and  more  up  in  London  ;  three 
weeks  and  more  away  from  that  pretty-spoken  lady  of  his;  three  weeks  gambling, 
and  roystering,  and  fighting,  and  beating  of  the  watch,  and  dancing  at  that  fine 
roundabout  place  at  Chelsea,  and  suppers  in  Covent  Garden;  three  weeks  spending 
of  the  King's  money  ;'  three  weeks ' 

'  Going  to  the  devil !  three  weeks  going  to  the  devil !'  said. a  voice  behind  him; 
•why  not  say  it  in  plain  English,  John  Homerton,  while  you're  about  it?' 

'  Bless  us  and  save  us,  if  it  isn't  Mr.  Dflrrell  Markham !' 

'  Himself,  and  nobody  else,'  said  the  speaker,  a  tall  man  in  a  riding-dress  and 
high  boots,  wearing  a  three.-cornered  hat,  drawn  very  much  over  his  eves;  'but 
keep  it  dark,  Homerton,  uobody  in  Compton  knows  I'm  here;  it's  only  a  business 
visit,  and  a  flying  visit  I'm  off  in  a  couple  of  hours.  What  was  that  you  were 
Baying  about  Captain  George  Duke,  of  his  Majesty's  ship  the   Vultur*? 

'  Why,  1  was  saying,  Master  Darrell,  that  if  T  had  such  a  pretty  wife  as  Mistr  ss 
Duke,  and  could  only  he  with  her  two  months  out  of  the  twelve,  1  wouldn't  be  in 
London  half  of  the  time.  I  think  your  cousin  rni^'ht  have  made  a  better  match 
of  it.  Master  Darrell  Markham,  with  her  pretty  fact 

'  I  think  t-lie  might,  John  Homerton.' 

They  had  been  Btanding  at  the  door  of  the  inn  during  this  little  dialogue.     The 
blacksmith  had  the  bridle  cf  his  sturdy  little  white  pony — five-and-fo 
of  age,  if  a  day — in  his  hand,  ready  to  mount  him  and  r  to  his  For 

the  furthest  end  of  the  Btraggling  country  town;  but  he  had  been  unable  to  resist 
•  the  fascination  cf  the  weak-eyed  landlord'1-  conversational  powers.     Darrell  Mark- 


IJltj 


DARRELL  MAP.KHAM  ;  OR 

turned  away  from  the  two,  and  walking  out  into  the  dusty  high  road,  looke 

(rinding  track   that  crossed   the  bare  black  moorland,  stretchin 

away  fur  miles  before   him.     The  Black    Bear  stood  at  the  entrance  to  the  towE|b 

and  on  the  very  edge  of  the  bleak  open  c  tuutry. 

«  We  shall  have  a  dark  night,'  said  Markham,  '  and  I  shan't  have  a  very  pleasan 

ride  to  Marley  Water  ' 

1  You'll  never  go  to-night,  sir!'  said  the  landlord. 

*1  tell  vim  1  n.M-i  go  to-night,  Samuel   Pecker.     Foul  or  fair  weather,  I  mm 

sleep  at  Marlej  Water  this  night.'  I 

'  You  always  was  BUCh  a  daring  one,  Mr.  Darrell,'  said  the  blacksmith,  admiringh 

loesn't  take  sii  very  much  courage  for  a  lonely  rule  over  Coinpton  Moor  a 

all  that  (nines  tn,  John   Homerton.     rveapairof  pistols  that  never  missed  fir 

yet;  my  horse  is  Bound,  wind  and  limb;   I've  a  full  purse,  and  I  know  how  t 

■are  of  it ;  I've  met  a  highwayman  before  to-night,  and  I've  been  a  match  fc 

to-night  ;  and  what's  mure  to  the  purpose  than  all,  Honest  Johu,  I  viu 

doit.' 

1  Must  be  at  Marley  Water  to-night.  Mr.  Markham?' 

'Musi  sleep  at  the  Gulden  Lion,  in  the  village  of  Marley  Water,  this  night,  M:, 

.  r.'  replied  the  young  man. 

'  Landlord,  show  ine  the  road  from  here  to  Marley  Water,'  said  a  stranger. 

The  three  men  looked  up,  ami  saw,  looking  down  at  them,  a  man  on  horseback 

who  had   ridden  up  to  the  inn  so  softly  that* they  had   never   heard  the  sound  c 

I  low  long  the  horse  might  have  been   standing  there,  or  whe: 

the  horseman  had  Stopped,  or  where  he  had  come  from,  neither  of  the  three  coul 

;   but    there  he  was,  with  the  last   fading  light  of  the  autumn   evening  fu. 

Upon  his  face,  the  last  rosy  shadow  of  the  low  Bun  gleaming  on  his  auburn  hair. 

This  i'ace,  lit  op  by  the  setting  sun,  was  a  very  handsome  one.   Regular  feature' 

'ly  cut;   a  ruddy  color   in  the  cheeks,  something  bronzed  by  a  foreign  sun; 

i   eyes,  with   dark,  clearly-defined  eyebrows,  and  waving  auburn   hair,  whicl 

1   tober  breeze  caught  up  from  the  low  broad  forehead.      The  horseman  was  0 

the  average  height,  stalwart,  well  proportioned  ;  a  model,  in  Bhort,  of  manly  Ena 

•  sauty.     The  horse  was  like  its  master,  broad-chested  and  strong-limbed. 

*I  want  to  know  the  nearest  mad  to  Marl'  y  Water/  he  said  for  the  secom 

for  there  was  something  bo  Budden  in  the  manner  pf  his  appearance,  tha 

neither  of  the  three  men  had  answered  his  inquiry. 

The  landlord,  Mr.  Samuel  Pecker,  wa>  the  nrst  to  recover  from  his  surprise. 
'  STon  winding  road  across  the  moor  will  take  you  straight  as  an  arrow,  Captain, 
he  answered,  civilly,  hut  paradoxically. 

The  horseman   no.hled.     'Thank  you,  and  g l-night,' he  said,  and  canterec 

the  moorland  bridlepath,  for  the  road  was  little  better. 
'Captain!  who -is  he  then?    asked   Darrell  Markham,  as  soon  as  the  strangei 
tie. 
ir  cousin's  husband,  sir ;  Captain  George  Duke.' 

c  Duke?     Why  he  Bpoke  like  a  stranger.' 
'  That'.-  hi-  way.  ,ir,'  said  the  landlord  ;   ••  that's  the  worst  of  the  Captain;  hail 
i    veil  met,  and  what  would  you  like  to  drink?  one  day,  and  keep  your  dis- 
spOthet  to  have  him;  but,  after  all,  he's  a 

chap,  the  Captain.' 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE.  5 

« He's  a  very  handsome  chap/  said  Parrell  Markham  ;  <  I  don't  so  much  wonder 
tat  Millicent  Markham  fell  in  love  with  him ' 

*  There's 'some  as  says  Miss  Millicent  had  fell  in  love  with  some  one  else  before 
ie  saw  him,'  said  the  landlord,  insinuatingly. 

«Thcy  should  find  something  better  to  do  than  to.  talk  of  a  young  lady  s  love 
jffairs  then/  answered  Markham,  gravely.  <  1  tell  you  what  bamucl  1  ecker,  if 
I  don't  set  out  at  once,  I  shan't  find  Marley  Water  to-night ;  it  will  be  as  dark  as 
itch  in  another  hour.     Tell  them  to  bring  out  Balmcrino. 

'Must  you  go  to-night,  Mr.  Markham?'  . 

<  I  tell  vou  I  must,  Samuel.  Come,  tell  the  ostler  to  bring  the  horse  round.  I 
halt  be  half  way  there  before  'tis  dark,  if  I  start  at  once.' 

Cod-nmht,  then,  sir,'  said  the  blacksmith;  'I  only  wish  you  was  going  to 
topinCompton:  the  place  is  dull  enough  now,  with,  the  old  squire  dead,  and 
&  Bali  sh'ut  up,  and1  the  young  squire  ruining  himself  at  Won  and  you 
way  Compton  isn't  what  it  was  when  you  was  a  boy,  Mr.  Pan  ell,  and  the 
to  squire;  your  uncle,  used  to  keep  Christmas  up  at  the  Hall ;  those  were  tnnes- 

^FZrVe  must  all  get  old,  John  Homerton,'  said  Parrell,  with  a  sigh. 

Hu  tV  hard  to  si|h,  or  to  talk  of  growing  old  either  sir,'  said  the  black- 
smith <at  eight-and-torenty  years  of  age.  Good-night,  Master  Darrell  and- 
Stoi  pardon  for  the  liberty-God  bless  you,'  and  he  mounted  the  elderly  white 
onv.'a nd  jogged  off  towards  the  twinkling  lights  of  the  narrow  high  street. 
'  Ast  as  thlWksmith  rode  away,  a  female  voice  m  the  interior  of  the  inn  was 
heard  crying  "  Where  is  he?— where  is  that  foolish  boy  of  mine,  I  say  i  He  s 
not  a  going  away  to-night;  he's  not  a  going  to  have  his  throat  cut,  or  his  brains 
Sowed  out  on  the  King's  highway  f  and  with  these  words  a  ponderous  female of 
some  fifty  summers,  emerged  from  the  inn  door,  and  flung  two  very  red  tat  aims, 
ornamented  with  black  mittens,  round  Darrell  Markham  s  neck 

°  You"  re  not  a  going  to-night,  Master  Darrell  ?     Oh,  I  heard  Decker  asking  ol 

youtos^y;  bu/in  his   niminy  piminy,  namby  pambv  Way,  asking  isn  t  asking, 

Smehow '  said  ponderous  Mrs   Decker,  contemptuously.     <  Oh,  I've  no  patience 

wl  h  m  •  a   ifpu  was  a  going  to  sta?y  for  dying  ducks  V     This  rather  obscure 

1     tv    tin   was>inted   derisively   at    Mr.    Samuel    Decker,   whose    despondeut 

, „■;  n  e  r  drew  upoc  him  the  contempt  of  his  magnificent  and  energetic  better  ball. 

Z  to  the  landlord  of  the  Black  Bear,  it  must  be  here  set  down  that  there  was 

Botueh  thin-.     Waiters  there  were,  chambermaids  there  were  ostlers  there  were, 

„  la! 1    nf  there  was  not.     He  was  so  entirely  absorbed  in  the  splendor  ot  Ins 

C^TS   dominant  spouse  that  he  had  much  better  not  have  b*n  a   aUj  foj 

what  there  was  of  him  was  always  in  the,  way.     If  he  gave  an  order,  it  was,  ot 

*  il    r„  s  ne  and  utterly  impracticable  order  ;  and  if  by  any  evil  chances,,,,,. 

Mi,  UnUSed  perhaps,  to  the  ways  of  the  place,  attempted  to  execute  that 
orTefwhVXe  WPas  the  whole  internal  machinery  of  the  Black  Bear  thrown  into 
ILJ  for  an  entire  day.  If  he  received  a  traveller  he  generally  gave  that 
livelier  sue*  a  dismal  impression  of  life  n  general,  and  Com^n^n4he_Moorin 
particular,  that  nine  times  out  of  ten  the  dispirited  wanderer  would  depart  as  m 
,  horse  had  had  a  mouthful  of  corn  and  a  drink  of  water  out  ot  the  great 
hough  und,  r  th,  oak  tree  before  the  door  There,  never  were  so  many  highway- 
men on  any  mad  n  00  the  r  ofj  there  never  were  going  I 


t,  DARRELL  MARKHAMj  OR 

storm..-  M  when  he  discoursed  of  the  weather;  there  never  were  such  calamities 
oomiog  down  upon  poor  old  England  as  when  he  talked  politics,  or  such  bad 
harvests  about  to  paralyse  the  country  as  when  he  conversed  on  agriculture. 

Bome  people  said  he  was  gloomy  by  nature,  and  that  (like  that  well-beloved 
king  across  the  channel,  who  used  to  tell  Madame  de  Pompadour  to  stop  in  the 
middle  of  a  "funny  story,)  it  was  pain  to  him  to  smile.  Others,  on  the  contrary, 
affirmed  that  he  had  been  a  much  livelier  man  before  his  marriage,  and  that  the 
weight  of  his  happiness  was  too  much  for' him;  that  he  was  sinking  under  the 
bliss  of  being  allied  to  so  magnificent  a  creature  as  Mrs.  Samuel  Pecker,  and  that 
his  unlooked-for  good  fortune  in  the  matrimonial  line  had  undermined  his  health 
and  spirits.  Be  it  as  it  might,  there  he  was,  mildly  despondent,  and  utterly  pow- 
erless to  combat  with  the  contumely  daily  heaped  upon  his  head  by  his  lovely  but 
gigantic  partner,  Sarah  Pecker. 

The  stranger,  on  first  becoming  a  witness  of  the  domestic  felicity  within  the 
Black  Bear,  was  apt  to  imagine  that  Mr.  Samuel  Pecker  was  in  a  manner  an 
intruder  there ;  landlord  on  sufferance,  and  nominal  proprietor;  or,  as  one  might 
say,  host  consort,  only  reigning  by  the  right  of  the  actual  sovereign,  his  wife. 
But  it  was  no  such  thing;  the  august  line  of  Pecker,  time  out  of  mind,  had  been 
ant  at  the  IMack  Pear.  The  late  Samuel  Pecker,  father  of  Samuel,  husband 
of  Sarah,  was  a  burly,  stalwart  fellow,  six  feet  high,  if  an  inch,  and  as  unlike  his 
mild  and  on  as  it  ia  possible  for  one  Englishman  to  be  unlike  another 

Englishman.  From  this  lather  Samuel  had  inherited  all  those  premises,  dwelling- 
hoose,  out-buildings,  gardens,  farm-yard,  stables,  cowhouses,  pig-sties,  known  as  the 
Black  Bear.  But  Samuel  had  nut  long  enjoyed  his  dominions.  Six  months  after 
iding  tin-  throne,  or  rather  installing  himself  in  the  great  oaken  arm-chair  in 
the  bar  parlor  of  the  Black  Hear,  he  had  taken  to  wife  Sarah,  housekeeper  to  Squire 
Bingwood  Markham,  of  the  Hall,  and  widow  to  Thomas  Masterson,  mariner. 

Thus  it  is  that  Sarah  Pecker's  two  fat  mottled  arms  are  at  this  present  moment 
clasped  round   Darrell  Markham's  neck.     She  had  known  Darrell  from  his  child- 

1; 1.  and  firmly  believed  that  not  amongst  all  the  beaux  who  frequent  Eauelagh 

and  ili''  coffee-nouses,  not  in  either  of  the  king's  services,  not  in  Leicester-fields 
or  Kensington,  not  at  the  'Cocoa  Tree,'  '  White's,'  nor  'Bellamy's;'  in  the  Mall, 
or  in  Change  Alley;  at  the  Bath,  or  at  Tonbridge  Wells;  not,  in  short,  in  any 
quart  rilized  and  fashionable  England,  is  there  to  be  met  with  so  hand- 

some, bo  distinguished,  so  clever,  so  elegant,  so  brave,  generous,  fascinating,  noble 
and  honest  a  Bcapegrace  as  Darrell  Markham,  gentleman  at  large,  and,  what  is 
worse,  in  difficulties.  * 

1  Sou  wonl  go  to-night,  Master  Darrell/  she  said.  'You  wont,  let  it  be  said 
tha't  you  went  away  from  the  Black  Bear  to  be  murdered  on  Compton  Moore. 
.Jenny'.-  basting  a  oapOB  for  your  supper  at  this  very  minute,  and  you  sliall  have 
a  bottle  of  your  pour  uncle's  own  wine,  that  Pecker  bought  at  the  Hall  sale.'. 

*  It's  Q0  ose,  Mrs.  Pecker;  I  tell  you  I  musn't  stay.  I  know  how  well  Jenny 
cau  roast  a  capon,  and  I  know  how  comfortable  you  can  make  your  guests,  and 
there's  nothing  I  should  like  better  than  to  stop,  but  I  musn't;  I  want  to  catch 
the  coach  that  leaves  Marley  Water  Aat  five  o'clock  to-morrow  morning  for  York. 
1  had  no  right  to  come  to  Compton  at  all,  but  I  couldn't  resist  riding  across  to 
shake  hands  with,  you,  Mrs.  Sarah,  for  the  sake  of  the  old  times  that  are  dead 
and  gone,  and  to  ask  the  news   of  Nat  Halloway,  the  miller,  and  Lucas  Jordan, 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE.  f 

the  doetor,  and  Selgood,  the  lawyer,  and  a  few  more  of  my  old  companions, 
and — — ,  and '  . 

'And  of  Miss  Milliccut ?  Eh,  Master  Darrell?  Lor  all  London's  such  a 
wide  city,  and  there's  so  many  of  these  fine  painted  madams  flaunting  along  the 
Mall,  full  sail,  in  their  pannier-hoops  and  French  furbelows,  you  haven't  quite 
forgotten  Miss  Millicent,  eh,  Darrell   Markham  ?' 

She  had  nursed  him  on  her  ample  knees  when  he  was  but  a  tiny,  swaddled 
baby,  and  she  sometimes  called  him  Darrell  Markham,  tout  court. 

*  There  was  something  wrong  iu  that,  Master  Darrell.  There  was  a  gay  wed- 
ding a  year  ago  at  Compton  church,  and  very  grand  and  very  handsome  everything 
was ;  and  sure  the  bride  looked  very  lovely,  but  one  thing  was  wrong,  aud  that 
was  the  bridegroom.'  . 

■  If  you  don't  want  me  to  be  benighted,  or  to  have  these  very  indifferent  brains 
of  mine  blown  out  by  some  valiant  knight  of  the  road  upon  Compton  Moor,  you'd 
better  let  me  be  off,  Mrs.  Pecker  !  Mistress  Pecker  !  oh,  the  good  old  days,  the 
dear  old  days  !  when  I  used  to  call  you  Mistress  Sally  Masterson,  in  the  house- 
keeper's room  at  the  Hall.'  He  turned  away  from  her  with  a  sigh,  and  began 
whistling  a  plaintive  old  English  ditty,  as  he  stood  looking' out  over  the  wide 
expanse  of  gloomy  moorland. 

The  ostler  brought  the  horse  round  to  the  inn  door — a  stout  brown  hack,  six- 
teen hands  high,  muscular  and  spirit-looking,  with  only  ono  speck  of  white  about 
him,  a  long  slender  streak  down  the  side  of  his  head. 

The  young  man  put  his  arm  caressingly  round  the  horse's  neck,  aud  drawing 
his  head  down  looked  at  him  as  he  would  have  looked  at  a  friend,  of  whose  truth, 
in  all  a  truthless  world,  he  at  least  was  certain. 

'  Brave  Balmcriuo,  good  Balmerino,'  he  said,  <  you've  to  carijy  me  four-and- 
twenty  miles  across  a  rough  Qountry  to-night.  You've  to  carry  me  on  an  errand, 
the  end  of  which  perhaps  will  be  a  bad  one;  you've  to  carry  me  away  from  a 
great  man  j  bitter  memories  and  a  great  many  cruel  thoughts;  but  you'll  <1  >  it, 
Balmerino,  you'll  do  it,  wont  you,  old  hoy  V 

The  horse  nestled  his  head  against  the  young  man's  shoulder,  and  snuffed  at  hi.^ 
OOat  slet  ve. 

'Brave  boy;  that  means  yes.' said  Markham,  as  he  sprang  into  the  saddle. 
'Good  night,  old  friends;  good-bye,  old  home:  as  Mr.  (larrick  says  in  Mr. 
Shakespi  are'.-  play,  '  Richard's  himself  again  !'     Good-bye  ' 

He  waved  his  hand  and  rode  slowly  off  towards  the  moorland  bridle-path,  but 
before  he  had  crossed  the  wide  high  road,  the  usually  phlegmatic  Samuel  Pecker 
intercepted  him,  by  suddenly  rising  up,  pale  of  countenance  and  dismal  of  mien, 
under  Iris  horse's  bead. 

DarxeU  pulled  up  with  an  abrupt  jerk  that  threw  Balmerino  on  his  haunches, 
or  he  must  inevitably  liave  ridden  over  the  landlord  of  the  Black   Bear. 

'  Mr.  Darrell  Markham,'  said  the  moody  innkeeper,  very  slowly,  '  don't  you  go 
to  Marlcy  Water  this  night!      Don't  go!      Don't  ask    me  why,  sir,  and    don't,  -ir, 

hcrefbre;  for  I  don't  know  wherefore,  and  1  can't  tell  why;  bul  don't 
one  of  those  wh*t-you-may-ealI-Vms.     I  mean  one  of 
about  me  that  .-ay-,  as  plain  as  words,  'don't  do  it.'' 
'  What,  a  presentiment,  eh.  Peck 

'That's  the  dictionary  word  for  it;  I  believe,  sir.     Don't  g 


DARRELL  MARKHAM ;  OR 

■  Samuel  Pecker,  I  must.  If  I  go  to  my  death,  through* going  to  Marley 
Water,  so  be  it;  I  go  !'  H^p  shook  the  bridle  on  the  horse's  neck,  and  the  animal 
sped  off  at  such  a  rate  that  by  the  time  Mr.  Samuel  Pecker  had  recovered  himself 
.sufficiently  to  look  up,  all  he  could  see  of  Darrell  Markham  was  a  cloud  of  white 
dust  hurrying,  over  the  darkening  moorland  before  the  autumn  wind. 

Mrs.  Pecker  stood  under  the  wide  thatched  porch  of  the  Black  Bear,  watching 
the  receding  horseman. 

'  Poor  Master  Darrell !  Brave,  generous,  noble  Master  Darrell !  I  only  wish, 
for  pretty  Miss  Millieent's  sake,  that  Captain  George  Duke  was  a  little  like  him/ 

4  But  suppose  Captain  George  Duke  wishes  nothing  of  the  kind  ?  How  then, 
Mistress  Pecker?' 

The  person  who  thus  answered  Mrs.  Pecker's  soliloquy  was  a  man  of  average 
height,  dressed  in  a  naval  coat  and  three-cornered  hat,  who  had  come  up  to  the  inn 
doorway  as  quietly  as  the  horseman  had  done  half  an  hour'  before. 

For  once  the  gigantic  bosom  of  the  unflinching  Sarah  Pecker  quailed  before 
one  of  the  sterner  sex  :  she  almost  stammered,  that  great  woman,  as  she  said,  '  I 
beg  your  pardon,  Captain  Duke,  I  was  only  a  thinking!' 

•  Y'ou  were  only  a  thiuking  aloud,  Mistress  Pecker.  So  you'd  like  to  see  George 
ihike,  of  His  Majesty's  ship  the  Vulture,  a  good-for-nothing,  idling,  reckless 
ne'er-do-well,  like  Darrell  Markham,  would  you!" 

'  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  Captain ;  you're  Miss  Millieent's  husband,  and  if — if  you 
was  a  puppy  dog,  and  she  was  fond  of  you,  there  isn't  a  word  I  could  bring  my- 
self to  say  against  you,  for  the  sake  of  that  sweet  young  lady.  But  don't  you 
speak  one  bad  word  of  Master  Darrell  Markham,  for  that's  one  of  the  things  that 
Sarah  Pecker  will  never  put  up  with,  jvhile  she's  got  a  tongue  in  her  head,  and 
sharp  nails  of  her  own  at  her  fingers'  ends.' 

The  Captain  burst  into  a  long,  ringing  laugh;  a  laugh  that  had  a  silver  music 
peculiar  to  itself  There  were  people  in  the  town  of  Compton-on-the-Moor,  in  the 
seaport  of  Marley  Water,  and  on  board  His  Majesty's  frigate  the  Vulture,  who 
said  that  there  were  times  when  that  laugh  had  a  cruel  sound  in  its  music,  and 
was  by  no  means  good  to  hear.  But  what  man  in*  authority  ever  escaped  the 
breath  of  slander,  and  why  should  Captain  Duke  be  more  exempt  than  his  fellows  V 

'  I  forgive  you,  Mrs.  Pecker,'  he  said.  '  I  forgive  you."  I  can  afford  to 
hear  people  speak  well  of  Darrell  Markham.  Poor  devil,  I  pity  him  !'  With 
which  friendly  remark  the  Captain  of  the  Vulture  strode  across  the  threshold  of 
the  inn,  and  on  the  door-step  encountered  Mr.  Samuel  Pecker,  who  had,  after  his 
solemn  adjuration  to  Darrell  Markham,  re-entered  the  hostelry  by  a  side  door  that 
led  through  the  stable  yard. 

If  Captain  George  Duke,  of  His  Majesty's  navy,  had  been  a  ghost,  his  appear- 
anoe  on  the  step  of  the  inn  door  could  scarcely  have  more  astonished  the  mild 
Samuel  Pecker.  He  started  back,  and  stared  at  the  naval  officer  with  his  weak 
hlue  eyes  opened  to, their  very  widest  extent. 

'  Then  you  didn't  go,  Captain  V 

'  Then  I  didn't  go  t     Didn't  go  where  V 

*  Didn't  go  to  Marley  Water  V 

'  Go  to  Marley  Water  !    No  !    Who  said  I  was  going?' 

The  small  remnant  of  manly  courage  left  in  Mr.  Samuel  Pecker  after  his  sur- 
prise, was  quite  knocked  out  of  him  by  the  energetic  tone  of  the  Captain,  and  he 
murmured  mildly, — 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE.  9 

'Who  said  so  ?     Oh  !  no  one  particular";  only,  only  yourself!' 

The  Captain  laughed  his  own  ringing  laugh  once  more. 

'  /said  so,  /said  so,  Samuel  ?     When  V 

'  Half  an"  hour  ago.     When  you  asked  me  the  way  there.' 

'  When  I  asked  you  the  way  to  Marley  Water !  Why  I  know  the  road  as  well 
as  I  know  my  own  quarter-deck.' 

'  That's  what  struck  me  at  the  time,  CaptaiD,  when  you  stopped  your  horse  at 
this  door  and  asked  me  the  way.     I  must  say  I  thought  it  was  odd.' 

'I  stopped  my  horse  !     When-?' 

'  Half  an  hour  ago.' 

'  Samuel  Pecker,  I  haven't  been  across  a  horse  to-day.  I'm  not  over-attached 
to  the  brutes  at  the  best  of  times,  but  to-night  I'm  tired  out  with  my  journey 
from  London,  aud  I've  just  come  straight  irom  my  wife's  tea-table,  where  I've 
been  drinking  a  dish  of  sloppy  bohea  and  going  to  sleep  over  woman's  talk.' 

'  And  yet  Parson  Bendham  says  there's  no  such  things  as  ghosts  !' 

'  Samuel  Pecker,  you're  drunk.'  * 

1 1  haven't  tasted  a  mug  of  beer  this  day,  Captain.     Ask  Sarah.' 

'That  he  hasn't,  Captain,"  responded  his  spouse  to  this  appeal.  '  I  keep  my 
eye  upon  him  too  sharp  for  that.' 

'  Then  what's  the  fool  wool-gathering  about,  Mistress  Sally  ?'  said  the  Captain, 
rather  angrily.      , 

4  Lord  have  mercy  upon  us  !  I  don't  know,'  replied  Mrs.  Pecker,  scornfully ; 
'  he's  as  full  of  fancies  as  the  oldest  woman  in  all  Cumberland  ;  he's  always  a  secin' 
of  ghosts,  and  hobgoblins,  and  windin'shects,  and  all  sorts  of  dismals,'  added  the 
landlady,  contemptuously,  '  aud  unsettlin'  his  mind  for  business  and  book-keepfn'. 
I  haven't  common  patience  with  him,  that  I  hain't.' 

Mrs.  Pecker  was  very  fond  of  informing  people  of  this  fact  of  her  small  stock 
of  common  patience  in  the  matter  of  Samuel,  her  husband;  and  as  all  her  ac- 
tions went  to  confirm  her  words,  she  was  no  doubt  pretty  generally  believed. 

'  Oh  !  never  mind,  it's  no  consequence,  and  it's  no  busiuess  of  mine,'  said  the 
landlord  with  abject  meekness ;  '  there  was  three  of  us  that  seen  him,  that's  all  !' 

'  Three  of  you  as  seen  whom  V  asked  the  Captain. 

'As  sec  him, as  sec '  the  landlord  gave  a  peculiar  dry  gulp  just  here, 

BB  if  the  ghost  of  something  was  choking  him,  and  he  was  trying  to  exorcise  it  by 
swallowing  hard, — 'three  of  us  see — it."  , 

'It?     What?' 

'  The  Captain  that  stopped  on  horseback  at  this  door  half  an  hour?ago,  and 
asked  me  the  way  to  Marley  Water.' 

Captain  Duke  looked  very  hard  into  the  face  of  the  speaker;  looked  thought- 
fully, gravely,  earnestly  at  him,  with  bright,  searching  brown  eyes;  and  then 
again  burst  out  laughing  louder  than  before.  So  much  was  he  amused  by  the 
landlord's  astonished  ami  awe-stricken  face,  that  he  laughed  all  the  way  across 
the  low  old  hall,  laughed  as  he  opened  the  door  of  the  oak  room  in  which  the 
gentealar  visitors  at  the  Pear  were  accustomed  to  sit,  laughed  as  he  threw  himself 
bark  into  the  great  wooden  chair  hj  the  fire,  and  stretched  his  legs  out  upon  the 
stone  hearth,  till  the  heels  of  his  boots  rest*  d  againtl  the  iron  dogs,  laughed  as 
he  called  in  Samuel  Pecker,  and  could  hardly  order  his  favorite  beverage — rum 
punch — for  laughing. 


10  DARRKLL  MARKUAM;  OR 

The  room  was  empty,  and  it  was  to  be  observed  that  when  the  dour  had  closed 
upon  the  landlord,  Captain  Doike,  though  he  still  laughed,  something  contracted 
the  muscles  of  his  face,  while  the  pleasant  light  died  slowly  out  of  his  handsome 
brown  eyes,  aud  gave  place  to  a  settled  gloom. 

When  the  jmnch  was  brought  him,  he  drank  three  glasses  one  after  another. 
But  neither  the  great  wood  fire  blazing  on  the  wide  hearth,  nor  the  steaming 
liquid,  seemed  to  warm  him,  for  he  shivered  as  he  drank. 

He  shivered  as  he  drank,  and  presently  he  drew  his  chair  still  closer  to  the 
fire,  planted  his  feet  upon  the  two  iron  dogs,  and  sat  looking  darkly  into  the  red, 
spitting,  hissing  blaze. 

'  My  ineubus,  my  shadow,  my  curse  !'  he  said.  Only  six  words,  but  they  ex- 
pressed the  hatred  of  a  lifetime. 

By  and  bye  a  thought  seemed  suddenly  to  strike  him ;  he  sprang  to  his  feet  so 
rapidly  that  he  overset  the  heavy,  high-backed  oaken  chair,  and  strode  out  of  the 
room. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  hall  was  situated  the  common  parlor  of  the  inn — the 
room  in  which  the  tradesmen  of  the  town  met  every  evening,  the  oak-room  being 
sacred  to  a  superior  class  of  travelers,  and  to  such  men  as  the  doctor,  the  lawyer, 
and  Captain  Duke.  The  common  parlor  was  full  this  evening,  and  a  loud  noise 
of  talking  and  laughter  proceeded  from  the  open  door. 

To  this  door  the  Captain  went,  and  removing  his  hat  from  his  clustering  au- 
burn curls,  which  were  tied  behind  with  a  ribbon,  he  bowed  to  the  merry  little 
assembly. 

They  were  on  their  feet  in  a  moment;  Captain  George  Duke,  of  His"  Majesty's 
ship  the  Vulture,  was  a  great  man  at  Compton-ou-the^Moor ;  his  marriage  with 
the  only  child  of  the  late  squire  identifying  him  with  the  place,  to  which  he  was 
otherwise  a  stranger.  •  ,     . 

'  Sorry  to  disturb  you,  gentlemen,'  he  said,  graciously ;  '  is  Pecker  here  Y 

Pecker  was  there,  but  so  entirely  crestfallen  and  subdued  that,  on. hearing  him- 
self asked  for,  he  emerged  from  the  head  of  the  table,  like  some  melaucholy  male 
Aphrodite-rising  from  the  sea,  and 'Uttered  not  a  word. 

*  Pecker,  I  want  to  know  the  exact  time,'  said  the  Captain.  '  My  watch  is  out 
of  order,  and  Mistress  Puke  has  been  so  much  occupied  with  reading. Mr.  Rich- 
ardson's romances  and  nursing  her  lap-dog,  that  all  the  clocks  at  the  cottage  are 
out  of  order  too.     ^Vhat  is  it  by  your  infallible  oaken  clock  on  the  stairs,  Samuel  ?' 

The  landlord  rubbed  his  two  little  podgy  hands  through  his  limp,  sandy  hair, 
and  seeming  to  feel  better  after  that  slight  refreshment,  retired  silently  to  execute 
the  Captain's  order.  A  dozen  stout  silver  turnip-shaped  chronometcis,  aud  great 
leather-encased  Tompion  watches,  were  out  in  a  moment. 

'Half-past  seven  by  me;'  'a  quarter  to  eight;'  '  twenty  minutes,  Captain !' 
He  might  have  had  the  choice  of  half  a  do/en  different  times  had  he  liked,  but 
he  only  said,  quietly — 

'Thank  you,  gentlemen,  very  much ;  but  I'll  regulate  my  watch  by  Pecker's  old 
clock,  for  1  think  it  keeps  truer  time  than  the  church,  the  market,  or  the  jail.' 

'The  jail's  pretty  true  to  time  at  eight  o'clock  on  a  Monday  morning  some- 
times, though,  Captain,  isn't  it?'  said  a  little  shoemaker,  the  wit  of  the  village. 

'  Not  half  true  enough  sometimes,  Mr.  Tompkins,'  said  the  Captain,  winding  up 
his  watch,  with  a  grave  smile  playing  round  his  well-shaped  mouth.     '  If  every 


THK  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE    •  IX 

body  was  hung  that  deserves  to  be  hung,  Mr.  Tomkins,  there'd  be  more  room  in 
the  world  for  honest  people.     "Well,  Samuel,  what's  the  exact  time  V 

'  Ten  minutes  to  eight,  Captain  Duke,  and  such  a  night !  I  looked  out  of  the 
staircase  window,  and  the  sky's  so  black  that  it  seems  as  if  it  would  fall  down 
upon  our  heads,  if  it  wasn't. for  the  wind  a-stopping  of  it.' 

'Teu  minutes  to  eight;  that's  all  right,' said  the  Captain,  putting  his  watch 
into  his  pocket.  He  turned  to  leave  the  room,  but  stopped  at  the  door  and  said, 
'Oh,  by-the-bye,  worthy  Samuel,  at  what  time  did  you  see  my  ghost?'  He 
laughed  as  he  asked  the  question,  and  looked  round  at  the  company  with  a  smile 
and  a  malicious  wink  in  the  direction  of  the  subdued  landlord. 

'  Comptou  church  clock  was  striking  seven  as  he  rode  away  across  the  moor, 
Captain.  But  don't  ask  me  anything,  don't,  please,  talk  to  me,  he  said  forlornly ; 
1  it's  no  consequence,  it's  not  any  business  of  mine,  it  doesn't  matter  to  anybody, 
but '  he  paused  aud  repeated  the  swallowing  process,  '  I  saio  it!' 

The  customers  at  the  Black  Bear  were  not  generally  apt  to  pay  very  serious  at- 
tention to  any  remark  emanating  from  the  worthy  landlord,  but  these  three  last 
words  did  seem  to  rather  impress  them,  and  they  stared  with  scared  faces  from 
Samuel  Pecker  to  the  Captain,  and  from  the  Captain  back  to  Samuel  Pecker. 

'  Our  jolly  landlord  has  been  a  little  too  free  with  his  own  old  ale,  gentlemen/ 
said  George  Duke.     '  Good-night.' 

lie  left  the  room,  and,  returning  to  the  oakparlor,  flung  himself  once  more  into 
his  old  moody  attitude  over  the  blazing  logs;  staring  gloomily  into  the  red  chasms 
in  the  burning  wood ;  craggy  cliffs  and  deep  abysses,  down  which  ever  and  anon 
some  dying  ember  fell  like  a  suicide  plunging  from  the  summit  of  a  cliff  to  the. 
fathomless  gulf  below. 

The  great  brown  eyes  -of  the  Captain  looked  straight  and  steadily  into  the 
changing  pictures  of  the  fire.  He  was  so  entirely  different  a  creature  to  that 
man  whose  gay  voice  and  light  laugh  had  just  resounded  in  the  commou  parlor 
of  the  inn,  that  it  would  have  been  difficult  for  anjr  one  having  seen  him  in  one 
place  to  recognize  him  in  the  other. 

fie  was  not  long  alone,  for  presently  Nathaniel  Halloway,  the  miller  dropped  in, 
and  joined  the  Captain  over  his  punch;  and  by-and-bye  Attorney  Sclgood,  and 
Mr.  Jordan,'  the  surgeon — Dr.  Jordan,  par  excellence,  throughout  Compton — 
came  in,  arm  in  arm.  The  four  men  were  very  fricudly,  and  they  sat  drinking, 
smoking,  and  talking  politics  till  midnight,  when  Captain  George  Duke'startvd 
from  his  Beat  and  was  for  breaking  up  the  party. 

'Twelve  o'clock  from  the  tower  of  Comptpn  church,'  he  said,  as  ho  rose  from 
the  table.     'Gentlemen,  I've  a  pretty  young  wile  waiting  forme  at  home,  and 
i've  a  mile  to  walk  before  1  get  home ;  I  shall  leave  you  to  finish  your  punch  and 
onversation  without  me.' 

Nathaniel  Halloway  sprang  to  his  feet.  'Captain  Ihike,  you're  not  going  to 
leave  us  in  this  shabby  fashion.  You're  not  on  your  own  quarter-deck,  ninein- 
and  you're  not  going  to  have  it  all  your  own  way.  As  for  the  pn  ttj  little 
Admiral  in  petticoats  at  home,  you  can  soon  make  it  straight  with  her.  Stop  and 
finish  the  punch,  man  !'  and  the  worthy  miller,  on  whom  the  evening's  potations 
had  had  some  little  effect,  caught  hold  of  the  Captain's  gold-laced  cuff  and  tried 
to  pr<  rent  his  leaving  the  room. 

him  lightly  off,  and  opening  the  door  that  led  into  the  hallj 


jo  DARRELL  MARKHAM  ;  OR 

•went  out,  followed  by  the  miller  and  his  boon  companions,  Dr.  Jordan  and  Lawyer 
Si  L'ood. 

The  house,  which  had  been  so  quiet  five  minutes  before,  was  now  all  bustle  and 
confusion.  First  and  foremost  there  was  worthy  Mistress  Sarah  Pecker  alternately 
bewailing,  lamenting,  and  scolding  at  the  very  extremest  altitude  of  her  voice. 
Then  there  was  Samuel,  her  husband,  pale,  aghast,  and  useless,  getting  feebly 
into  everybody's  way,  and  rapidly  sinking  beneath  the  combined  effects  of  inward 
stupefaction  and  universal  contumely.  •  Then  there  was  the  ostler  and  two  rosy- 
faced,  but  frightened  looking  chambermaids  clinging  to  each  other  and  to  the 
cook-maid  and  the  waiter ;  and  in  the  centre  of  the  hall  the  one  cause  of  all  this 
alarm  and  emotion  lay  stretched  in  the  arms  of  two  men,  a  letter-carrier  and  a 
farm  laborer.  Yes,  with  Mrs.  Sarah  Pecker  kneeling  by  his  side,  adjuring  him 
to  speak,  to  move,  to  open  his  heavy  eye-lids ;  silent,,  motionless,  and  rigid,  lay 
that  Darrell  Markham,  who,  five  hours  before,  had  started  in  full  health  and 
strength,  for  the  little  seaport  of  Marley  "Water. 

'  We  kicked  over  him  in  the  path/  said  one  of  the  men ;  '  me  and  Jim  Bowlder 
here  of  Squire  Morris's  at  the  Grange ;  we  come  slap  upon  him  in  the  dark,  so 
dark  that  we  couldn't  see  whether  he  was  a  man  or  a  dead  sheep ;  but  we  got  him 
np  in  our  arms  and  felt  that  he  wa's  stiff  with  cold  and  damp — he  might  be  mur- 
dered or  he  might  be  frozen  ;  there  was  some  wet  about  his  chest  and  his  left  arm, 
and  I  know  by  the  feel  of  it,  thick  and  slimy,  that  it  was  blood ;  and  me  and  Jim 
Bowlder,  we  raised  him  between  us,  heeis  and  head,  and  carried  him  straight  here/ 

1  Who  is  it,  what  is  iti"  asked  Captain  Duke,  advancing  into  the  very  heart  of 
the  little  crowd. 

'  Your  wife's  nearest  kinsman  and  dearest  friend,  Captain ;  Miss  Millicent's 
first  cousin,  Darrell  Markham !  Murdered  !  murdered  on  the  moorland  road  from 
here  to  Marley  Water.' 

'Not  above  a  mile  from  here,  missus,'  interposed  the  laborer  who  had  picked^up 
the  wounded  man. 

'  Darrell  Markham  !  my  wife's  cousin,  Darrell  Markham  !  What  did  he  come 
here  for  ?  W^hat  was  he  doing  in  Compton  V  The  dark  brown  eyes  looked 
straight  down  at  the  still  face  lying  on  the  letter-carrier's  shoulder,  and  dripping 
wet  with  the  vinegar  and  water  with  which  Mistress  Pecker  was  bathing  the  suf- 
ferer's forehead. 

'  What  did  he  come  here  for?  He  came  here  to  be  murdered  !  He  came  here 
to  have  his  precious  life  taken  from  him  upon  Compton  Moor,  poor  dear  lamb, 
poor  dear  lamb !'  sobbed  Mrs.  Pecker. 

During  all  this,  confusion,  Lucas  Jordan,  the  surgeon,  slid  quietly  behind  the 
little  crowd,  and  taking  Darrell  Markham's  aim  in  his  hand,  deliberately  slashed 
open  Lis  coat  sleeve  from  the  cuff  to  the  shoulder  with  the  scissors  hanging  at 
Mrs.  Pecker's  waist. 

'  A  basin,  Molly,'  he  said  quietly.  The  terrified  chambermaid  brought  him  one 
in  her  shaking  hands  and  held  it  under  Darrell's  arm/ 

'  Steadily,  my  gixl/  said  the  doctor,  as  he  drew  out  the  lancet  and  inserted  it 
in  the  cold  and  rigid  arm.     The  blood  trickled  slowly  and  fitfully  from  the  vein. 

Ms  he  dead,  is  he  dead,  Mr..  Jordan,'  cried  Sarah  Pecker. 

'No  more  than  I  £m,  ma'am — no  more  than  I  am,  Mrs.  Pecker.  A  pistol  bul- 
let through  the  right  arm,  shivering  the  bone  above  the  olbow.     He  has  fainted 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE.  10 

from  the  loss  of  blood  and  the  coldness  of  the  night  air.  A  few  bruises  and  con- 
tusions from  falling  off  his  horse,  and  a  wound  iu  the  scalp  from  the  sharp  pebbles 
on  the  road  ;  nothing  more  !' 

Nothing  more  !  It  seemed  so  little  to  these  terrified  people,  who  a  minute 
before  had  thought  him  dead,  that  Mrs.  Pecker,  albeit  unused  to  "the  melting 
mood,  caught  the  surgeon's  hand  between  her  two  fat  palms  aud  covered  It  with 
kisses  and  tears. 

'  So  this  is  Darrell  Markham,'  said  the  Captain  thoughtfully  ;  '  Darrell,  the  ir- 
resistible; Darrell  that  was  to  have  married  his  cousin  Millicent,  now  my  wife. 
Hum,  a  fair  young  man  with  auburn  ringlets  aud  a  straight  nose  !  No  fear  of  his 
life,  you  say,  doctor  V 

'  None,  unless  fever  should  supervene ;  which  heaven  forbid.' 

1  But  if  it  should,  how  then  ?' 

'  Every  fear.     With  the  excitable  temperaments ' 

'  His  temperament  is  excitable  V 

'Extremely  excitable !  An  accident  such  as  this  is  very  likely,  to  result  iu 
fever;  fever  may  produce  delirium.  Mrs.  Pecker,  he  must  be  kept  very  quiet, 
he  must  sec  no  one — that  is  to  say,  no  one  whose  presence  can  be  in  the  least  cal- 
culated to  agitate  him.' 

'  I'll  keep  watch  at  his  door  myself,  doctor,  and  I  should  like  to  see,'  said,  the 
worthy  matron,  glaring  vengefully  at  her  small  spouse,  '  I  should  very  much  like  * 
to  see  the  person  that'll  dare  to  disturb  him  by  so  much  as  breathing.'     The  land- 
lord of  tbe  Black  Pear  left  off  breathing  ou   the  instant,  as  if  he  imagined  him- 
self called  upon  to  exist  in  future  without  the  aid  of  that  useful  exercise. 

'  "We  must  get  him  up  stairs  at  once,  Mrs.  Pecker/  said  the  doctor.  <  We  must 
get  him  into  your  quietest  room  aud  your  most  comfortable  bed,  and  we  must  lose 
no  time  about  it.' 

At  the  doctor's  direction,  the  letter  carrier  and  the  farm  laborer  resumed  their 
station  at  tbe  bead  and  feet  of  Darrell  Markham,  the  ostler  assisting  them.  The 
three  men. had  just  raised  him  iu  their  arms,  when  he  lifted  his  left  hand  to  his 
damp  forehead  aud  slowly  opened  his  eyes.  » 

The  three  meu  stopped,  and  Mrs.  Pecker  screamed  aloud,  '  Oh,  be  joyful,  he 
isn't  dead !     Master  Darrell,  speak  to. us,  dear,  and  tell  us  you're  not  dead.' 

The  blue  eyes  looked  dimly  into  the  seared  faces  crowding  round. 

'  He  shot  ,me.  He 'robbed  me  of  the  letter  to  the  king  and  of  my  purse.  "He 
shot  me  in  my  arm.' 

1  Who  shot  you,  my  darling  ?  who  shot  you,  Master  Darrell,  dear?'  cried  Mrs. 
Peckur. 

The  young  man  looked  at  her  with  a  vacant  stare,  evidently  half  unconscious 
of  where  he  was,  and  of  the  identity  of  those  around  him.  Presently  he  took 
lm  blood-shot  eyes  from  her  face,  aud  his  gaze  wandered  rouud  amongst  the  other 
•spectators.  From  the  landlord  to  the  chambermaid,  from  the  chambermaid  to  the 
letter-carrier,  from  the  letter-carrier  to  the  doctor,  from  the  doctor  to  Captain, 
_-<:  Duke,  of  his  Majesty's  ship  the  Vulture. 

The  blue  eyes  opened  to  their  wildest  distension  with  a  wild  stare. 

'  That,  that's  the  man:' 

'  What  man,  Master  Darrell  ?' 

'  The  man  who  shot  me.' 


j4  DARRELL  MARKHAM ;  OR 

'  I  thought  we  should  have  him  delirious,'  said  the  doctor,  under  his  breath. 

Captain  Duke's  dark  eyebrows  fell  loweringly  over  his  brown  eyes,  and  a  black 
shade  spread  itself  about  his  handsome  face. 

'  You're  dreaming,  darling,'  said  Mrs.  Pecker,  soothingly.  <  What  man,  dear, 
and  where  is  he  V 

Darrell  Markham  slowly  lifted  his  unwounded  arm  and  pointed  with  a  white 
and  slender  hand  full  at  the  dark  face  of  the  Captain  of  the  Vulture. 

i  There!'  he  said,  half  raising  himself  in  the  arms  of  the  men  supporting  him, 
and  with  the  effort  he  sank  back  once  more  unconscious. 

'  I  thought  so,"  muttered  Captain  Duke. 

'  So  did  I,  Captain,"  responded  the  doctor.  '  We  shall  have  him  in  a  high  fe- 
ver, and  then  he  may  go  off  like  the  snuff  of  a  candle.' 

1  And  he  must  be  kept  quiet  ?'  asked  the  Captain,  as  they  carried  the  wounded 
man  up  the  wide  oak  staircase. 

1  He  must  be  kept  quiet,  Captain,  or  I'll  not  answer  for  his  life.  I've  known  him 
from  a  boy,  and  I  know  any  strong  excitement  will  throw  him  into  a  brain  fever.' 

'  Poor  fellow !  He's  a  kinsman  of  mine,  by  my  marriage  with  his  cousin  ; 
though  I'm  afraid  there's  not  much  love  lost  between  us  on  that  score.  And  this 
is  the  first  time  we've  met.     Strange  !' 

1  There's  a  good  deal  in  life  that  is  strange,  Captain  Duke,'  said  the  doctor, 
.  sententiously. 

*  There  is,  doctor,'  answered  the  sailor.  '  So  Darrell  Markham,  travelling  from 
Compton  to  Marley  Water,  has  been  shot  by  a  person  or  persons  unknown.  Very 
strange '.' 


CHAPTER  II.— Millicent. 

Millicent  Duke  sat  alone  in  her  little  parlor  on  this  autumn  night,  with  the 
high  wind  howling  and  whistling  round  her  windows,  trying  to  read  Mr.  Rich- 
ardson's last  novel ;  a  well  thumbed  little  volume,  embellished  with  small  oval . 
engravings,  which  had  been*  lent  to  her  by  the  wife  of  the  curate  of  Compton-on- 
the.-Moor.  But  she  couldn't  read  ;  the  book  dropped  out  of  her  hands,  and  she 
fell  a  musing  over  the  low  fire  and  listening  to  the  Wind  disporting  itself  in  the 
chimney.  It  is  something  to  be  able  to  look  at  Mrs.  Millicent  Duke,  as  she  sits 
quietly  by  her  lonely  hearth,  with  one  white  hand  supporting  her  small  head,  and 
with  her  elbow  leaning  on  the  stiff  horsc-hair-cushioned  arm  of  the  chair  in  which 
she  is  seated. 

It  is  a  very  fair  and  girlish  face  upon  which  the  fitful  firelight  trembles;  now 
illumining  one  cheek  with  a  soft  red  glow,- now  leaving  it  in  shadow  as  the  flame 
shoots  up  or  dies  out  of  the  scattered  embers  on  the  hearth.  A  very  fair  and 
girlish  face,  with  delicate  features  and  softly  dark -blue  eyes,  that  leave  a  sad  sha- 
dow in  their  softness — a  shadow  as  of  tears  long  dried  but  not  forgotten.  There 
'  are  pensive  linos,  too,  about  the  mouth  which  do  not  tell  of  an  entirely  happy 
youth ;  sorrow  and  Millicent  Duke  have  met  each  other  face  to  face,  and  have 
been  companions  and  bedfellows  before  to-night.  But  in  spite  of  this  pensive 
sadness  which  shadows  her  beauty,  or  perhaps  by  every  virtue  of  this  sadness, 
which  refines'the  boauty  it  shadows,  Millicent  Duke  is  a  very  pretty  girl.     It  is 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE.  J  5 

difficult  to  think  of  her  as  a  married  woman ;  there  is  such  an  air  of  extreme 
youth  about  her,  such  a  girlish,  almost  childish  timidity  iu  her  manner,  that,  as 
her  husband — not  too  loving  or  tender  a  husbaud  at  the  best  of  times — is  apt  to 
Bay,  '  it  is  as  difficult  to  deal  with  Millicent  as  with  a  baby,  for  you  never  know 
when  she  may  begin  whimpering  like  a  spoiled  child  as  she  is.'  There  are  people 
in  Compton-on-the-Moor  who  remember  the  time  when  the  spoiled  child  never 
whimpered,  and  when  a  gleam  of  spring  sunshine  was  scarcely  a  brighter  or  more 
welcome  thing  to  fall  across  a  man'?  pathway  than  the  radiant  face  of  Millicent 
Markham;  but  this  was  in  the  good  days  long  departed,  when  her  father^  the 
squire,  was  living,  and  when  she  used  to  ride  about  the  country  roads  on  her  pretty 
white  pony,  accompanied  and  protected  by  her  cousin  and  dearest  friend,  Darrell 
Markham. 

She  js  peculiarly  sad  this  night.  The  shrill  wind  whistling  at  the  latticed 
casements  makes  her  shiver  to  the  heart ;  she  draws. the  skirt  of  her  grey  silk  pet- 
ticoat over  her  shoulders,  and  drags  the  heavy  chair  nearer  to  the  low  fire ;  she 
has  sent  her  one  servant,  a  strapping  country  girl,  to  bed  long  ago,  and  she  cannot 
get  any  more  fuel  to  heap  upon  the  wide  hearth.  The  wax  candles-  have  burnt 
low  in  the  quaint  old  silver  caudle-sticks ;  ten,  eleven,  twelve  have  struck,  with 
long  dreary  intervals  between  each  time  of  striking,  from  the  tower  of  Comptou 
church,  and  still  no  Captain  Duke. 

'  He  is  happier  with  them  than  with  me,'  she  said,  mournfully.  '  Who  ean 
wonder?  They  make  him  smile;  I  can  only  weary  and  annoy  him  with  my 
wretched  pale  face.'  She  looked  up  as  she  spoke  at  an  oval  mirror  on  the  wain- 
scot opposite  to  her,  and  saw  this  sad  pale  face  reflected  by  the  faint  light  of  the 
low  fire  and  the  expiring  eandlce.  '  And  they  once  called  me  a  pretty  girl !  I 
think  he  would  scarcely  know  me  now !'  she  said,  with  a  sigh. 

The  long  hour  after  midnight  dragged  itself  out,  and  as  one  o'clock  struck  with 
a  dismal  sound  vibrating  drearily  along  the  empty  street,  she  heard  the  sharp 
stroke  of  her  husband's  footstep  on  the  pavement.  She  sprang  from  her  chair 
hurriedly,  and  ran  out  into  the  narrow  passage;  but  just  as  she  was  about  to  with- 
draw the  bolts,  she  paused  suddeuly,  and  laid  her  hand  upon  her  heart.  'What 
U  the  matter  with  me  to-night — what  is  the  matter,  I  wonder?'  she  murmured; 
'I  feel  as  if  some  great  unhappiness  were  coming,  yet  what  more  unhappiness  can 
come  to  me  ?' 

Her  husband  knocked  impatiently  at  the  door  with  his  sword-hilt,  as  she  fum- 
bled nervously  with  the  bolts. 

'  Were  you  listening  at  the  door,  Millicent,  that  you  open  it  so  quickly  ?'  he 
asked,  as  he  entered.  • 

'  T  heard  your  footstep  in  the  street,  George,  and  hurried  to  let  you  in.     You 
arc  very  late,'  she  added,  as  he  strode  into  the  parlor'and  flung  himself  into  the  ' 
ohair  she  had  been  sitting  in. 

'  Oh,  a  complaint,  of  course,'  he  said,  with  a  sneer.  '  I've  a  great  deal  to  keep 
n>c  at  home,  certainly,'  he  muttered,  looking  round — '  a  crying  wife  and  a  bad 
•  fire'  He  turned  his  back  to  her,  and  beut  over  the  embers,  trying  to  Warm  his 
hands  at  the  r«<l  light  left  in  them.  She  Beated  herself  at  the  slender-legged  pol- 
ished mahogany  table,  and.taking  up  Mr.  Richardson's  Dcglectcd  novel,  pretended 
to  read  it  by  the  last  glimmer  of"  the  two  candles, 

Presently  he  said,  without  once  turning  round  to  look  at  her,  without  onoe 


1({  DARRELL  MARKHAM ;  OR 

changing  his  stooping  posture  over  the  fireplace,  without  once  addressing  her  by 
name ;  '  There's  been  an  accident  down  there  !' 

'An  accident '.'  She  dropped  her  book,  and  looked  up  with  an  expression  of 
vague  alarm.     'An  accident!     Oh,  I  am  sorry;  but  what  accident?' 

Though  there  was  an  accent  of  gentle  pity  in  her  voice,  there  was  still  a  slight 
bewilderment  in  her  manner,  as  if  she  were  so  preoccupied  by  some  sad  thoughts 
of  her  own  as  scarcely  to  be  able  to  understand  his  words. 

As  he  did  not  answer  her  first  question,  she  asked  again, '  What  accident,  George  ?' 

'A  man  half  killed  by  highwaymen  on  Compton  Moor.' 

'  But  not  killed,  George — not  killed  ?'  she  asked,  anxiously,  but  still  with  that 
half-preoccupied  manner,  as  if,  in  spite  of  herself,  she  could  not  quite  concen- 
trate her  mind  upon  the  subject  of  which  her  husband  was  speaking. 

1  Not  killed,  no;  but  all  but  killed,  don't  I  tell  you?'  said  the  Captajn.'  'Just 
the  toss-up  of  a  guinea  whether  he  lives  or  dies.  And  a  handsome  fair-haired 
lad  enough,'  he  added,  half  to  himself— 'a  handsome,  fair-faced,  fairdiaired  lad 
enough.     Poor  devil !'  •    . 

«  I  am  Very  sorry,'  she  said,  gently  ;  and  as  her  husband  did  not  stir  from  his 
scat  by  the  fire,  she  took  up  her  book  once  more,  and  began  poring  over  the  small, 
old-fashioned  type.  Her  husband  turned  and  looked  at  her  as  she  sat  bending 
over  the  light,  and  after  watching  her  for  a  few  minutes  with  an  angry  glimmer 
in  his  handsome  brown  eyes,  said,  with  a  scornful  laugh : 

'  Heaven  bless  these  novel-reading  women  !  The  death  of  a  fellow-creature  is 
little  enough  to  them  as  long  as  Miss  Clarissa  is  reconciled  with  her  lover,  and 
Mistress  Pamela's  virtue  is  rewarded  in  the  sixth  volume  !  Here's  a  tender,  com- 
passionate creature  for  you !  cries  over  Sir  Charles  Grandison,  and  doesn't  so 
much  as  ask  me  who  it  is  that  is  lying  between  death  and  life  in  the  blue  room  ' 
down  at  the  Black  Bear  !' 

She  looked  up  at  him  with  a  frightened  face,  as  if  she  were  used  to  hard 
words,  and  used  to  warding  them  off  by  apologetic  speeches,  and  said  hesitatingly  : 

'  I  beg  your  pardon,  George  !  Indeed  I  am  not  unfeeling.  I  am  sorry  for°this 
poor  wounded,  half-dying  man,  whoever  he  may  be.  If  I  could  do  anything  to 
serve  him,  or  to  comfort  him,  I  would  do  it.  I  would  do  it  at  whatever  cos°t  to 
myself.     What  more  can  I  say,  George  ?'  > 

'And  they  talk  about  a  woman's  curiosity  !'  he  cried,  with  a  mockih^  lau^h  ; 
!  even  now  she  doesn't  ask  me  who  the  wounded  man  is.' 

'  I  do,  I  do,  George.     Poor  creature  !  who  is  he  ?' 

He  paused  for  a  few  moments  after  her  question.  She  had  risen  from  her  seat, 
and  stood  ft  the  table  trying  to  revive  the  drooping  wick  of  the  last  of  the  two 
caudles  left  burning.  The  Captain  turned  his  chair  full  round,  and  watched  her 
pale  face  as  he  said,  slowly  and  distinctly — 

'  Your  first  cousin,  Darrell  Markham  !' 

She  uttered  a  cry;  not  a  shrill  scream,  but  a  faint,  pitiful  cry;  and  lifted  her 
two  little  hands  wildly  to  her  head.  She  remained  in  this  attitude  for  some 
minutes,  quite  still,  quite  silent,  and  then  sank  quietly  into  her  old  position  at  tfae 
table.  Her  husband  watched  her  all  the  time  with  a  sneering  -smile  and  -bright 
gutter  in  his  eyes.  ° 

'  Darrell !  my  cousin  Darrell  dead  ?' 

'Not  dead,  Mistress  Millicent;'not  quite  so  bad  as  that,     Your  dear,  fair- 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE  J- 

haired,  pretty-faced  cousin  is  not  dead,  my  sweet,  loving  wife;  he  is  only — 
dying.'  • 

''  Lying  in  the  blue  room  at  the  Black  Bear/  she  repeated  %  the  words  he  had 
said  a  few  minutes  before,  in  a  distracted  manner,  very'  painful  to  look  upou. 

'  Lying  in  the  blue  room  at  the  Bear.  Yes,  the  blue  room,  number  four,  on 
the  loug  corridor.  You  know  the  chamber  well  enough  ;  have  you  not  been  there 
often  to  see  your  father's  old  housekeeper"  the  mariner's  widow,  at  least  the  inn- 
keeper's wife  V  '  . 

'Trembling  betweeu  life  and  death?'  she  said,  in  the  same  half-conscious,  piti- 
ful toue. 

'  He  was  !  Heaven  knows  how  lie  may  be  now.  That  was  half  au  hour  ago ; 
the  scale  may  be  turued  by  tins  time ;  he  may  be  dead  !' 

As  he  said  the  last  word,  she  sprang  from  her  seat,  and,  without  once  looking 
at  him,  ran  hurriedly  to  the  outer  door.  She  had  her  hand  upon  the  bolts,  when 
she  cried  out  in  a  tone  of  dismal  anguish,  'Oh!  no,  no,  no!'  and  dropped  down 
on  her  knees,  with  her  head  leaning  against  the  lock  of  the  door. 

The  Captain  of  the  Vidture  followed  her  every  movement  with  his  eyes,  and  as 
she  fell  on  her  knees,  he  said — 
.  'You  were  goim?  to  run  to  him  !' 

' 1  was.' 

'  Then,  why  not  go?  You  see  I  arn  not  cruel ;  I  do  not  slop  you.  You  art- 
free  !     Go !     Shall  I  open  the  door  for  you  Y 

•  She  lifted  herself  with  an  effort  upou  her. feet,  still  leaning  for  support  agaiusfe 
the  street  door.  '  No/  she  said,  '  I  will  not  go  to  him;  I  could  do  him  no  good  ; 
I  might  agitate  him  ;   I  might  kill  him  !' 

The  Captain  bit  his  under  lip,  and  the  smile  faded  in  his  brown  eyes. 

'  But  understand  this,  George  l>uke  ;  it  is  no  fear  of  you  which  keeps  me  here  ; 
it  is  no  dread  of  your  cruel  words  or  more  cruel  looks  that  holds  me  from  goim; 
to  his  side  ;  for  if  I  could  save  him  by  my  presence  from  one  throb  of  pain,  if  1 
could  give  him  by  my  love  and  devotion  one  moment's  peace  and  comfort,  and  the 
town  of  Comptou  were  one  sea  of  raging  fire,  I  would  walk  through  that  sea  to 
do  it.' 

'That's  a  very  pretty  speech  ouf  of  a  novel/  said  her  husband,  '  but  I  never 
very  much  believe  in  these  pretty  speeches — perhaps  I've  a  #ood  reason  of  my 
own  for  doubting  them.  I  suppose  if  Darrell  Markham  asked  for  you  with  his 
dying  breath  you'd  go  to  see  him  ;  especially,'  he  added,  with  his  old  sneer,  '  as 
Comptoo  isn't  a  sea  of  fire.'  He  rose  as  he  said  this,  and  came  out  into  the  pas- 
sage, where  she  stood.  She  sprang  towards  him,  and  caught  his  arm  convulsively 
between  her  two  little  hands.  '  Bid  he,  did  he,  did  he?'  she  cried,  passionately; 
'  did  Darrell  ask  to  see  me?  Oh,  George  Duke,  on  your  honor  as  a  gentleman, 
Bailor,  as  a  trusted  servant  of  his  gracious  Majesty,  by  your  hope  iu  Heaven, 
by  your  faith  iu  God,  did  Barrell  Markham  ask  to  see  me  ?' 

il«'  kept  her  waiting  for  his  answer  as  he  slowly  lit  a  was  taper  at  the  flickering 
flame  in  the  high  candlestick. 

'  I  shan't  say  no,  and  I  shan't  say  yes,'  he  said  ;  '  I'm   not   going  to   be  go-be- 
tween for  you  and  him.     Q-ood  night/  he  added,  passing  her  in  the  passage,  ao  1 
going  slowly  up  the  stairs ;  'if  you've  a  miud  to  sit  up  all  night,  do  so,  by  all 
means.     Its  on  the  stroke  of  two,  and  I'm  tired.     Good  nijjht !' 
2 


jg  DARRELL  MARKHAM:  OR 

He  strode  up  stairs,  and  entered  a  little  sleeping  room  over  the  parlor  in  which 
they  had  been  seated.  It  was  simply  but  handsomely  burnished,  and  the  most 
exquisite  neatness  prevailed  in  all  its  arrangements.  A  tiny  fire  burned  on  the 
hearth,  but  though  the  Captain  shivered,  it  was  to  the  window  he  directed  his 
Bteps.  He  opened  it  very  softly,  and  leaned  out,  as  the  clocks  struck  two.  '  I 
thought  so,'  he  said,  as  he  heard  the  faint  rattle  of  the  bolts  and  the  creaking  of 
a  door.     '  By  the  heaven  above  me,  1  knew  she  would  go  to  him !' 

The  faint  echoes  of  a  light  and  rapid  footstep  broke  the  silence  of  the  quiet 
street.  '  And  the  least  agitation  might  be  fatal !'  said  the  Captain  of  the  Vul- 
ture, as  he  softly  closed  the  casement  window. 

Darrell  Markham  lay  in  a  death-like  stupor  in  the  blue  chamber  at  the  Black 
Bear.  Mr.  Jordan,  the  doctor,  had  declared  that  his  shattered  arm,  if  it  ever 
was  set  at  all,  could  not  be  set  for  some  days  to  come.  In  the  meantime  Mrs. 
Sarah  Pecker  had  received  directions  to  bathe  it  constantly  with  a  cooling  lotion, 
but  on  no  account,  should  the  young  man  again  return  to  consciousness,  was  the 
worthy  landlady  of  the  Black  Bear  to  disturb  him  with'  either  lamentations  or 
inquiries ;  neither  was  she,  at  hazard  of  his  life,  to  admit  any  one  into  the  room 
but  the  doctor  himself.  ,Mrs.  Pecker  devoted  herself  to  her  duties  as  nurse  to 
the  wounded  man  with  a  good  will,  merely  remarking  that  she  should  very  much 
like  to  see  the  individual,  male  or  female,  as  would  coine  anigh  him,  to  worrit  or 
to  vex  him  ;  '  for  if  it  was  the  parson  of  the  parish,'  she  paid,  with  determination, 
(  he  niusn't  set  much  account  on  his  eyesight  if  he  tries  to  circumvent  Sarah 
Pecker.'  .  ,'■.,.• 

'No  one  must  come  anigh  him,  once  for  all,  and  once  and  forever,'  added  Mrs. 
Pecker,  sharply,  as  she  faced  about  on  the  great  staircase,  and  confronted  a  little 
crowd  of  pale  faces,  for  all  the  household  thronged  round  her  when  she  emerged 
from  the  sick  room  in  their  eagerness  to  get  tidings  of  Darrell  Markham  ;  '  and  I 
won't  have  you,'  she  continued,  with  especial  acerbity,  to  her  lord  and  master,  the 
worthy  Samuel,  'I  won't  have  you  a  comiu'  and  a  worritin'  with  your  "  Aint  he  bet- 
ter, Sarah  ?"  and  "  Don't  you  think  he'll  get  over  it,  Sarah  V  and  such  like  '. 
When  a  poor  dear  young  gentleman's  arm  is  shivered  to  a  jelly,'  she  said,  address- 
ing herself  generally,  '  and  when  a  poor  dear  young  gentleman  has  been  a  lying 
left  for  dead  on  a  lonely  moor  for  ever  so  many  cruel  hours  on  a  cold  October  night. 
he  don't  get  over  it  in  twenty  minutes,  no,  nor  yet  in  half  an  hour  neither  !  So 
what  you've  all  got  to  do  is  just  to  go  back  to  the  kitchen,  and  sit  there  quiet  till 
one  or  other  of  you  is  wanted,  for  whatever  Master  Darrell  wants  shall  be  got ! 
>"es,  if  he  wanted  the  king's  golden  crown  and  sceptre  one  of  you  should  walk  to 
London  and  fetch  'eni !'  Having  thus  declared  her  supreme  pleasure,  Mrs.  Pecker 
re-ascended  the  stairs,  and  re-entered  the  sick  room. 

'  If  a  person  could  be  in  two  places  at  once,  any  way  convenient,'  muttered  the 
landlord,  as  he  withdrew  into  the  offices  of  the  inn,  '  why  I  could  account  for  it 
most  easy;  but  seein'  they  can't,  or  seein'  as  how  the  parson  says -they  can't,  it's 
too  much  for  me,'  upon  which  Mr.  Samuel  Pecker  seated  himself  on  a  great  settle 
before  the  kitchen  fire,  and  began  to  scratch  his  head  feebly.      v 

'  I  think  as  Mr.  Markham's  had  himself  shot  in  the  arm,  and  she  aint  over  likely 
to  be  a  comin'  downstairs,  I  might  venture  on  a  mug  of  the  eightpenny/  the 
landlord  by-and-bye  remarked,  thoughtfully. 

Half-past  two  by  the  eight-day  clock  on  the  stairs,  and  the  landlord  going  to 


-'THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE.  10 

letch  himself  this  very  mug  of  beer,  was  arrested  in  the  hall  by  a  feeble,  knocking 
at  the  stout  oaken  doory  closed  and  barred  for  the  night;  for  the  doctor  had  de- 
termined on  remaining  with  his  patient  till  the  following  morning. 

The  candle  nearly  dropped  from  the  hand  of  the  nervous  landlord.  '  Ghosts,  I 
daresay/  he  muttered;  '  Comptou's  full  of 'ein.'  The  knocking  was  repeated; 
this  time  a  little  louder.  #        • 

'They  knocks  hard  for  spirits,"  said  Samuel,   'and  they're  pretty  persevering' 
The  knocking  was  still  continued,  still  growing  louder.     '  Oh,  then,  I  suppos 
must,'  murmured  Mr.  Pecker,  with  a  groan  ;  '  but  when  I  undoes  the  bolts  what's 
the  good  ?     Of  course  there's  no  one  there.' 

There  was  some  one  there,  however,  for  when  Mr.  Pecker  had  undone  the  bolts 
very  slowly,  and  very  cautiously,  and  with  a  great  many  half-suppressed  but  cap- 
tious groans,  a  woman  slid  iu  at  the  narrow  opening  of  the  door,  and  before  Mr. 
Pecker  had  recovered  his  surprise,  crossed  the  hall,  and  made  direct  for  the  for- 
bidden room  in  which  Darrell  Markham  lay. 

Terror  of  the  vengeance  of  the  ponderous  Sarah  seized  upon  the  soul  of  the 
landlord,  and  with  an  unwonted  activity  he  ran  forward,  and  intercepted  the 
woman  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs. 

'You  musn't  ma'am,'  he  said,  '  you  musn't ;  excuse  me,  ma'am,  but  its  as  much 
as  my  life,  or  even  the  parson — yes,  ma'am,  Sarah  !'  thus  vaguely  the  terrified 
Samuel. 

The  woman  let  the  large  grey  hood  which  muffled  her  face  fall  back  and  said, 
'  Don't  you  know  me,  Mr.  Pecker?     'Tis  I,  Millicent,  Millicent — Duke.' 

•  You,  Miss  Millicent.  •  You,  Mrs.  ^uke.  Oh,  miss,  oh,  ma'am,  your  poor  dear 
cousin  !' 

•  Mr.  Pecker,  for  the  love  of  mercy,  don't  keep  me  from  him.  , Stand  out  of  the 
way,  stand  out  of  the  way,'  she  said,  passionately ;  "  he  may  die  while  your'e  talking 
to  me  here.' 

'But,  ma'am,  you  musn't  go  to  him;  the  doctor,  ma'am,  and  Sarah,  Miss  Milli- 
cent.    Sarah,  she  was  quite  awful  about  it,  ma'am.' 

Stand  aside,'  she  said  ;  '  1  tell  you  a  raging  fire  shouldn't  stop  me.    Stand  aside  !' 

'  No,  ma'am — but  Sarah  !' 

Millicent  Duke  stretched  out  two  slender  white  hands,  and  pushed  the  landlord 
from  her  way  with  a  strength  that  sent  him  sliding  round  the  polished  oak  banis- 
ter of  the -lowest  stair.  She  flew  up  the  flight  of  steps,  which  brought  her  to  the 
door  of  the  blue  room,  and  on  the  threshold  found  herself  face  to  face  with  Mrs. 
Sarah  Pecker. 

The  girl  fell  on  her  knees,  her  pale  hair  falling  'loose  about  her  shoulders,  aDd 
her  long  grey  cloak  trailing  round  her  on  "the  polished  oaken  floor. 

'  Sarah,  Sarah,  darling  Sarah,  dear,  let  me  see  him.' 

'  Not  you,  not  you,  nor  any  one,'  said  the  landlady,  sternly — '  you  the  last  of  all 
persons,  Mrs.  George  l>uke.' 

The  name  struck  her  like  a  blow,  aud  she  shivered  under  the  cruelty  of  the 
thrust. 

'Let  me  sec  him! — let  me  see  him!'  she  said;  '  his  'father's  brother's  only 
child — hi<  first  cousin — his  playfellow — his  friend — his  dear  and  loving  friend — 
his ' 

'Wife  that  was  to  have  been,  Mrs.  Duke,'  interrupted  the  landlady. 


20  DARRELL  MARKHAM ;  OR       "? 

'  His  wife  that  was  to  have  been ;  and  never,  never  shield  have  been  another's. 
His  loving,  true,  and  happy  wife,  that  would  have  been.  Let  me  see  him  !'  she 
cried  piteously,  holding  up  her  clasped  hands  to  Mrs.  Pecker. 

'  The  doctor's  in  there,  do  you  want  him  to  hear  you,  Mrs.  Duke  ?' 

'If  all  the  world  heard  me  I  wouldn't  stop  from  asking  you :  Sarah  let  me  gee 
my  cousin,  Darrell  Markham !  •       . 

The  landlady,  holding  a  candle  in  her  hand,  and  looking  down  at  the  piteous 
face  and  tearful  eyes  all  blinded  by  the  loose,  pale  golden  hair — softened  a  little 
as  she  said — 

'  Miss  Millicent,  the  doctor  has  forbidden  a  mortal  creature  to  come  anigh  hrm  ! 
the  doctor  has  foi'bidden  a  mortal  soul  to  say  one  word  to  him  that  could  disturb 
or  agitate  him  !  and  do  you  think  the  sight  "of  your  face  wouldn't  agitate  him  ?' 

'  But  he  asked  to  see  me,  Sarah ;  he  sj*)ke  of  me !' 

'  When,  Miss  Millicent  V  Softening  towards  this  pitiful  pale  face  looking  up 
into  hers,  the  landlady  leaves  off  calling  her  dead  master's  daughter  by  this  new 
name  of  Mrs.  Duke.     '  When,  Miss  Millicent  ?' 

'  To-night — to-night,  Sarah.' 

<  Master  Darrell  asked  to  see  you  !     Who  told  you  that  ?' 

1  Captain  Duke.' 

1  Master  Darrell  hasn't  said  better  than  a  dozen  words  this  night.  Miss  Milli- 
cent ;  and  those  words  were  mad  words,,  and  never  once  spoke  your  name.' 

'  But  my  husband  said ' 

*  The  Captain  sent  you  here,  then  ?' 

1  No,  no;  he  didn't  send  me  here.  Heboid  me — at  least  he  gave  me  to  under- 
stand that  Darrell  had  spoken  of  me — had  asked  to  see  me.' 

'Your  husband  is  a  strange  gentleman,  Miss  Millicent.' 

1  Let  me  see  him,  Sarah,  only  let  me  see  him.  I  won't  speak  one  word,  or 
breathe  one  sigh ;  only  let  me  see  him.' 

Mrs.  Pecker  withdrew  for  a  few  moments  into  the  blue  room,  and  whispered  to 
the  doctor.  Millicent  Duke,  still  on  her  knees  on  the  threshold  of  the  half- 
opened  door,  strained  her  eyes  as  if  she  would  have  pierced  through  the  thick 
oak  that  separated  her  from  the  wounded  man. 

The  landlady  returned  to  the  door.  "'If  you  want  to  look  at  a  corpse,  Miss 
Millicent,  you  may  come  in  and  look  at  him,  for  he  lies  as  still  as  one." 

She  took  the  kneeling  girl  in  her  stout  arms,  and  half  lifted. her  info  the  room, 
where,  opposite  a  blazing  fire,  Darrell  Markham  lay  unconscious  on  a  great 
draperied  four-post  bed.  His  head  was  thrown  back  upon  the  pillow,  the  fair 
hair  dabbled  with  a  lotion  with  whiih.  Mrs.  Pecker  had  been  bathing  the  scalp 
wound  spoken  of  by  the  doctor.  Millicent  tottered  to  the  bedside,  and  seating 
herself  in  an  arm-chair  which  had  been  occupied  by  Sarah  Pecker,  took  Darrell 
Markham's  hand  in  her's,  and  pressed  it  to  her  tremulous  lips.  It  seemed  as  if 
there  was  something  magical  in  this  gentle  pressure,  for  the  young  man's  eyes 
opened  for  the  first  time  since  the  scene  in  the  hall,  and  he  looked  at  his  cousin. 

1  Millicent/  he  said,  without  any  sign  ef  surprise,  'dear  Millicent,  it  is.so  good 
of  you  to  watch  nie.'  She  had  nursed  him  three  years  before  through  a  dange- 
rous illness,  and  in  his  delirium  he  confused  the  present  with  the  past,  fancying 
that  he  was  in  his  old  room  at  Compton  Hall,  and  that  his  cousin  had  been  watch- 
ing by  his  bedside. 


;thb  captain  of  the  vulture.  21 

'  Call  my  uncle/  he  said,  '  call  the  squire;  I  want  to  see  him  !'  and  then,  after 
a  pause,  he  muttered,  looking  about  him,  <  surely  this  is  not  the  old  room — surely 
some  one  has  altered  the  room.' 

'  Master  Darrell,  dear,'  cried  the  landlady,  '  don't  you  know  where  you  are  ? 
With  friends,  3Iaster  Darrell,  true  and  faithful  friends.     Don't  you  know,  dear  V 

'  Yes,  yes/  he  said,  '  I  know,  I  know,  I've  been  lying  out  in  the. cold  and  my 
arm  is  hurt.  I  remember,  Sally,  I  remember ;  but  my  head  feels  strange,  and  I 
can  scarce  tell  where  I  am.' 

'  See  here,  Master  Darrell,  here's  Mistress  Duke  has  come  all  the  way  from  the 
other  end  of  Compton,  on  this  bitte^  black  night,  on  purpose  to  see  you.'  The 
good  woman  said  this  to  comfort  the  patient,  but  the.  utterance  of  that  one  name, 
Duke,  recalled  his  cousin's  marriage,  and  the  young  man  exclaimed,  bitterly, 

'  Mistress  Duke  !  yes,  T  remember/  and  then  turning  his  weary  head  upon  the 
pillow,  he  cried,  with  a  sudden  energy,  '  Millicent  Duke,  Millicent  Duke,  why  do 
you  come  here  to  torture  me  with  the  sight  of  you  V 

At  this  moment  there  arose  the  sound  of  some  altercation  in  the  hall  below,  and 
then  the  noise  of  two  voices  iu  dispute  and  hurried  footsteps  upon  the  staircase.- 
Mrs.  Pecker  ran  to  the  door,  but  before  she  could  reach  it,  it  was  burst  violently 
open,  and  the  Captain  of  the  Vulture  strode  into  the  room.  He  was  closely  fol- 
lowed by  the  doctor,  who  walked  straight  to  the  bedside,  exclaiming  with  sup- 
pressed  passion,  '  I  protest  against  this,  Captain  Duke  ;  and  if  any  ill  consequence 
come  of  it,  I  hold  you  answerable  for  the  mischief 

The  Captain  took  no  notice  of  this  speech,  but  turning  to  his  wife,  said  savagely, 
•  Will  ft  please  you  to  go  home  with  me,  Mistress  Millicent?  It  is  near  upon 
four  o'clock,  and  a  sick  gentleman's  room  is  scarce  a  fit  place  for  a  lady  at  such  a 
time.' 

Darrell  Markham  lifted  himself  up  in  the  bed,  and  cried  with  a  hysterical 
laugh,  'I  tell  you  that's  the  man,  Millicent;  Sarah,  look  at  him.  That  is  the 
man  who  stopped  me  upon  Compton  Moor,  shot  me  in  the  arm  and  rifled  me  of 
my  pUrse.' 

'Darrell!  Darrell!'  cried  Millicent,  'you  do  not  know  what  you  arc  saying. 
That  man  is  my  husband.' 

1  Your  husband  !     A  highwayman  ! — a ' 

Whatever  word  was  on  his  lips  remained  unspoken,  for  he  fell  back  insensible 
upon  the  pillow.- 

'  Captain  George  Duke,'  said  the  surgeon,  laying  his  hand  upon  the  patient's 
wrist,  '  if  this  man  dies,  you  have  committed  a  murder.' 


CHAPTER  HI.— Looking  Back.' 

John  Homcrton,  the  blacksmith,  only  spoke  advisedly  when  he  said  that  the 
young  squire,  Ringwood  Markham,  was  ruining  himself  up  in  London. 

Iiingwood  Markham  was  three  years  older  than  his  sister 'Millicent,  and  six 
years  younger  than  his  cousin  Darrell;  for  old  Squire  Markham  had  married  late 
in  life,  and"  had,  shortly  after  his  marriage,  adopted  little  Darrell,  the  only  child 
of  a  younger  brother,  who  had  died  early,  leaving  a  small  fortune  to  his  orphan 
boy 


g£  DARRELL  MARKHAM;  OR 

Ringwood  Markham  in  person,  closely  resembled  his  sister.  He  had  the  sanie 
pule,  golden  hair,  the  deep,  limpid,  blue  eyes,  the  small  features,  and  delicate 
pink  and  white  complexion. 

Ringwood  had  always  been  bis  father's  favorite,  to  the  exclusion  even  of  pretty, 
loveable  Millieent;  and  as  his  cousin  Darrell  grew  to  manhood,  it  vexed  the -old 
squire  to  see  the  elder,  high-spirited  and  stalwart,  broad-chested  and  athletic,  ac- 
complished in  all  manly  occupations;  a  good  shot,  an  expert  swordsman,  a  bold 
horseman,  and  a  reckless,  dare-devil,  generous,  thoughtless,  open-hearted  lad, 
while  [Ringwood  only  thought  of  his  pretty  face  and  his  embroidered  waistcoat, 
and  loved  the  glittering  steel  ornaments  of  h#sword-hilt  far  better  than  the  blade 
of  that,  weapon. 

It  was  hard  for  the  squire  to  have  to  confess  it,  even  to  himself;  but  it  was  not 
the  less  a  fact,  that  Ringwood  Markham  was  a  milksop. 

The  old  man  hated  Darrell  for  being  superior  to  his  son. 

This  was  how  the  pale  face  of  sorrow  first  peeped  in  upon  the  little  family 
group  at  Comptou  Hall.  ' 

Darrell  and  Millieent  had  loved  each  other  from  that  early  childish,  but  unfor- 
gotten  day,  on  which  the  orphan  boy  peeped  iuto  his  baby  cousin's  cradle,  and 
cried  out  at  her  pretty  face  and  tiny  rosy  hands. 

They  loved  each  other  from  such  an  early  age,  and  they  loved  each  other  so 
honestly  and  truly,  that  perhaps  they  were  never,  in  the  legitimate  sense  of  the 
word,  lovers. 

If  the  squire  saw  this  growiug  attachment  between  the  young  people,  he 
neither  favored  nor  discouraged  it.  He  had  never  cared  much  for  Miflicent, 
She  and  her  brother  were  the  children  of  a  woman  whom  he  had  married  for 
the  sake  of  a  handsome  fortune,  and  who  died  unnoticed  and  unregr'etted,  and, 
some  people  said,  of  a  broken  heart,  before  Millieent  was  a  twelvemonth  old. 

So  things  went  on  pretty  smoothly.  Millieent  and  Darrell  rode  together 
through  the  shady  green  lanes,  and  over  the  stunted  grass  and  heather  on  Comp- 
ton  Moor,  while  Ringwood  idled  about  the  village,  or  lounged  at  the  bar  of  the 
Black  Bear,  until  a  catastrophe  occurred  which  changed  the  whole  current  of 
events. 

Darrell  and  Ringwood  Markham  had  a  desperate  quarrel — a  quarrel  in  which 
blows  were  struck  and  hard  words  spoken  upon  both,  sides,  and  which  abruptly 
ended  Darrell's  residence  at  Compton  Hall. 

Darrell  had  discovered  a  flirtation  between  Ringwood  and  a  girl  of  seventeen. 
the  daughter  of  a  small  farmer — a  flirtation  which,  but  for  this  timely  discovery, 
might  have  ended  in  shame  aud  despair.  Scarlet  with  passion,  the  young  man 
had  taken  his  foppish  cousin  by  the  collar  of  his  velvet  coat,  and  dragged  him 
straight  into  the  presence  of  the  father  of  the  girl,  saying,  with  an  oath,  such  as 
was,  unhappily,  only  too  common  a  hundred  years  ago — 

<  k'ou'd  better  keep  an  eye  on  this  youug  man,  Farmer  Morrison:  if  you  want 
to  save  your  daughter  from  a  scoundrel.' 

Ringwood  turned  very  white — he  was  one  of  those  who  grew  pale  aud  not  red 
with  passion — and  sprang  at  his  cousin  like  a  cat,  caught  at  his  throat  as  if  he 
would  have  strangled  him;  but  one  swinging  blow. from  Darrell's  fist  laid  the 
young  man  on  Farmer  Morrison's  sanded  floor,  with  a  general  illumination  glit- 
tering before  his  dazzled  eyes. 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE.  2;; 

Darrell  strode,  back  to  the  Hall,  where  he  packed  some  clothes  iu  his  saddle- 
bags, and  wrote  two  letters,  one  to  his  uncle,  telling  him,  abruptly  enough,  that 
he  had  knocked  Ringwood  down  because  he  had  found  him  acting  like  a  rascal, 
and  that  he  felt,  as  there  was  now  bad  blood  between  them,  they  had  better 
part.  His  second  letter  was  addressed  to  Millicent,  and  was  almost  as  brief  as 
the  first.  He  simply  told  her  of  the  quarrel,  adding  that  he  was  going  to  Londou 
to  seek  his  fortune,  and  that  he  should  return  to  claim  her  as  his  wife. 

He  left  the  letters  on  the  high  chimucy-piccc  in  his  bedroom,  and  went  down 
to  the  stables,  where  he  found  his  own  nag  Balnierino,  and  fastened  his  few 
possessions  to  the  saddle,  mounted  the  horse  in  the  yard,  and  rode  slowly  away 
from  the  house  iu  which  his  boyhood  and  youth  had  been  spent. 

Ringwood  Markham  went  home  late  at  night  with  a  pale  face  and  a  handker- 
chief bound  about  his  forehead. 

lie  found  his  father  sitting  over  a  spark  of  fire  iu  the  oak  parlor  on  one  side  of 
the  hall.  The  door  of  this  parlor  was  ajar,  and  as  the  young  man  tried  to  creep 
past,  ou  his  way  up  stairs,  the  squire  called  to  him  sharply,  *  Ringwood,  come 
here.' 

He  cowered  sulkily  into  the  room,  hanging  his  broken  head  down,  and  looking 
at  the  floor. 

'What's  the  matter  with  your  head,  Riugwood  V 

1  The  pony  shied  at  some  sheep  on  the  moor,  and  threw  me  against  a  stone,' 
muttered  the  young  man. 

'  You're  telling  a  lie,  Ringwood.  Markham  I've  a  letter  from  your  cousin 
Darrell  iu  my  pocket.  Bah,  man  !  you're  the  first  of  the  Markhams  that  ever 
took  a  blow  without  paying  it  back  with  interest.  You've  your  mother's  milk- 
and-water  disposition,  as  well  as  your  mother's  fate.' 

*  You  needn't  ta'lk  about  her/  said  Ringwood  ;  '  you  didn't  treat  her  too  well, 
if  folks  speak  the  truth.' 

f  Riugwood  Markham,  don't  provoke  me.  It's  grief  enough  to  have  a  son  that 
can't  take  his  own  part.     Go  to  bed.' 

The  young  man  left  the  room  with  the  same  slouching  step  with  which  he  had 
entered.  He  stole  cautiously  up  stairs,  for  he  thought  his  cousin  Darrell  was 
still  in  the  house,  and  he  had  no  wish  to  arouse  that  gentleman. 

So  Millicent  was  left  alone  at  Comptou  Hall.  Utterly  alone,  for  she  had  now 
no' one  to  love  her. 

Darrell,  therefore,  beiug  gone,  and  dear  old  Sally  Masterson  having  left  the 
Hall  to  be  mistress  of  the  Black  Bear,  poor  Millicent  was  abandoned  to  the  ten- 
der mercies  of  her  father  and  brother,  neither  of  whom  cared  much  more  for  her 
than  they  did  for  the  meek  white  aud  liver-coloured  spaniel  that  followed  her 
about  the  house.  So  the  delicate  piece  of  mechanism  got  out  of  order,  and  "Mil- 
licent's  days  were  devoted  to  novel  reading  and  to  poring  over  an  embroidered 
waistcoat-piece  that  was  destined  for  Darrell,  and  the  colors  of  which  were  dull 
and  faded  from  the  tears  that  had  dropped  upon  the  silks. 

She  kept  Darrell's  letter  in  her  bosom.  In  all  the  ways  of  the  world  she  was 
as  unlearned  as  in  that  da*  when  Darrell  had  peeped  in  upon  her  asleep  in  the 
cradle,  and  she  had  do  more  doubt  that  her  cousin  would' make  a  fortune,  and  re- 
turn in  a  f'tw  years  to  claim  her  as  his  wife,  than  she  had  of  her  own  exusteucc. 
Bat,  in  spite  of  this   hope,  the  day-  Wtere   long  and  dreary,  her  father  neglect- 


24 


DARRELL  MARKHAM ;  OR 


Jul,  her  brother  supercilious  and  disagreeable,  and  her  home   altogether  very 
miserable. 

The  bitterest  misery  was  yet  to  come.  It  came  in  the  person  of  a  certain  Cap- 
tain George  Duke,  who  dropped  into  Compton  on  his  way  from  Marley  Water  to 
rhe  metropolis,  and  who  contrived  to  scrape  acquaintance  with  Squire  Markham 
in  the  best  parlor  at  the  Black  Bear.  Captain  George  and  Master  Bingwood" 
became  sworn  friends  in  a  day  or  two,  and  the  hearty  sailor  promised  to  stop  at 
Compton  again  on  his  return  to  his  ship,  the   Vulture. 

The  simple  villagers  readily  accepted  Captain  Duke  as  that  which  he  repre- 
sented himself,  an  officer  of  His  Majesty's  navy;  but  there  were  people  in  the 
-caport  of  Marley  Water  who  said  that  the  good  ship  whose  name  was  written 
down  as  the  Vulture  in  the  Admiralty's  books  was  quite  a  different  class  of  vessel, 
to  the  trim  little  craft  which  lay  sometimes  -in  a  quiet  corner  of  the  obscure  har- 
bor at  Marley.  There  were  malicious  people  who  whispered  such  "Words  as  '  pri- 
vateer ! — pirate  ! — slaver  !' — but  the  most  daring  took  good  care  only  to  whisper 
out  of  the  Captain's  hearing,  for  George  Duke's  sword  was  as  often  out  of  its 
scabbard  as  in  it  during  his  brief  visits  to  the  little  seaport.  However  it  might 
be,  handsome,  rollicking,  light-hearted,  free-handed  Geprge  Duke  became  a  great 
favorite  with  Squire  Markham  and  his  son  Bingwood. 

Compton  Hall  rang  night  after  night  with  the  gay  peals  of  his  hearty  laughter; 
corks  flew,  and  glasses  jingled,  as  the  three  men  sat  up  till  midnight  (a  terrible 
hour  at  Compton)  over  their  Burgundy  and  claret.  It  was  in  one  of  these  half- 
drunken  bouts  that  Squire  Markham  promised  the  hand  of  his  daughter  Millicent 
to  Captain  George  Duke. 

1  You're  in  love  with  her,  George,  and  you  shall  have  her !'  the  old  man  said  ; 
'  I  can  give  her  a  couple  of  thousand  pounds  at  my  death,  and  if  anything  should 
happen  to  Bingwood,  she'll  be  sole  heiress  to  the  Compton  property.  You  shall 
have  her,  my  bpy !  I  know  there's  some  sneaking  courtship  been  going  on  be- 
tween Milly  and  a  broad-shouldered,  fair-haired  nephew  of  mine,  but  that  shan't 
stand  in  your  way,  for  the  lad  is  no  favorite  with  me ;  and  if  I  choose  to  say  it, 
my  fine  lack-a-daisical  miss  shall  marry  you  in  a  week's  time.' 

Captain  Duke  sprang  from  his  chair,  and  wringing  the  squire's  hand  in  his, 
cried  out  with  a  lover's  rapture — 

•  She's  the  prettiest  girl  in  England  !  and  I'd  sooner  have  her  than  any  duchess 
at  St.  James's/ 

'  She's  pretty  enough  as  for  that/  said  Bingwood,  superciliously,  '  and  she'd  be 
a  deal  prettier  if  she  was  not  always  whimpei-ing.' 

Farmer  Morrison  could  have  told  how  Master  Bingwood  himself  had  gone- 
whimpering  out  of  the  sanded  kitchen  on  the  day  that  Darrell  Markham  knocked 
him  down  ;  and  the  plain-spoken  farmer  told  him,  after  dressing  his  broken  head, 
that  if  he  ever  came  about  those  premises  again,  it  would  be  to  get  such  a  thrash- 
ing as  he  would  be  easily  able  to  remember. 

Both  the  children  inherited  something  of  the  nervous  weakness  of  that  poor, 
delicate,  and  neglected  mother  who  had  died  seventeen  years  before  in  Sally  Mas- 
terson's  arms;  but  timid  and  sensitive  as  Millicent  was/I  think  that  the  higher 
nature  had  been  given  to  her,  and  that  beneath  that  childish  timidity  and  that 
nervous  excitability  which  would  bring  tears  into  her  eyes  at  the  sound  of  a  harsh 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE.  25- 

word,  there  was  a  latent  and  quiet  courage  that  had  no  existence  in  Ringwocd's 
selfish  and  frivolous  character. 

Harsh  words  on  this  occasion,  as  on  every  other,  did  their  work  with  Milliccnt 
Markham.  She  heard  her  father's  determination  that  she  should  marry  George 
I  Hike,  at  first,  with  a  stupid  apathetic  stare,  as  if  the  calamity  were  too  great  for 
her  to  realize  its  misery  at  one. grasp ;  then,  as  he  repeated  his  command,  her  clear 
blue  eyes  brimmed  over  with  big  tears,  as  she  fell  on  her  knees  at  his  feet. 

'  You  don't  mean  it,  sir,'  she  said,  pitcously  clasping  her  poor  little  feeble 
hands.  l  You  know  that  I  love  my  cousin  Darrell,  and  that  we  are  to  be  man  and 
wife  when  you  are  pleased  to  give  your  consent.  You  must  have  known  it  all 
along,  sir,  though  we  had  not  the  courage  to  tell  you.  I  will  be  your  obedient 
rhild  in  everything  but  this ;  but  I  never,  never  can  marry  an}'  one  but  Darrell !' 

What  need  to  tell  the  old  story  of  stupid,  obstinate,  narrow-minded  country 
squire's  fury  and  tyranny.  Did  not  poor  Sophia  Western  suffer  all  these  torments, 
though  in  the  dear  old  romance  all  is  so  happily  settled  in  the  last  chapter  :  but 
in  this  case  it  was  different — Squire  Markham  would  hear  of  no  delay  ;  and  be- 
fore Darrell  could  get  the  letter  which  Milliccnt  addressed  to  a  coffee-house  near 
<  lovent  Garden,  and  bribed  one  of  the  servants  to  give  to  the  Compton  post- 
master— before  the  eyes  of  the  bride  had  recovered  from  long  nights*  of  weeping — 
before. the  village  had  half  discussed  the  matter — before  Mrs.  Sarah  Pecker  could 
finish  the  petticoat  she  was  quiltiug  for  the  bride — the  bells  of  Compton  church 
were  ringing  a  cheery  peal  in  the  morning  sunshine,  and  Milliccnt  Markham  and 
Ceorge  Duke  were  standing  side  by  side  at  the  altar. 

"When  Darrell  Markham  received  the  pool-  little 'tear-stained  letter,  telling  him 
of  this  ill-omened  marriage,  he  fell  into  an  outburst  of  rage ;  an  outburst  of  blind 
fury  which  swept  alike  upon  the  squire,  young  Ringwood,  Captain  George  Duke, 
and  even  poor  Millicent  herself.  It  is  so  difficult  for  a  man  to  understand  the 
influence  brought  to  bear  upon  a  weak,  helpless  woman  by  the  tyranny  of  a  brutal 
lather.  Darrell  cried  out  passionately  that  Millicent  ought  to  have  been  true  to 
him,  in  spite  of  the  whole  world,  as  he  Would  have  been  to  her,  through  every 
trial.  Made  desperate  by  the  shipwreck  of  his  happiness,  he  rushed  for  a  brief 
period  into  the  dissipations  of  the  town,  and  tried  to  drown  Millicent's  fair  face 
in  tavern  measures  and  long  draughts  of  Burgundy. 

A  marriage  contracted  under  such  circumstances  was  net  likely  to  be  a  very 
happy  one.  Light-hearted,  rollicking  George  Duke  was  by  no  means  a  delightful 
person  by  the  domestic  hearth.  At  home  he  was  mopdy  and  ill-tempered,  always 
ready  to  grumble  at  Millicent's  pale  face,  and  tear-swollen  eyes.  For  the  best 
part  of  the  year  he  was  away  with  his  ship,  on  some  of  those  mysterious  voyages 
of  which  the  Admiralty  knew  so  little;  and  in  these  long  absences,  Millicent,  if 
not  happy,  was  at  least  at  rest.  Three  months  after  the  wedding  the  old  squire 
was  found  dead  in  his  arm-chair,  and  Ringwood  succeeding  to  the  estate,  shut  up 
the  Hall,  and  rushed  away  to  London,  where  he  was  soon  lost  to  the  honest  folks 
f   Compton  in  a  whirlpool  of  vice  and  dissipation. 

This  was  how  matters  stood  when  George  and  Millicent  had  been  married  fifteen 
months,  and  Darrell  Markham  well-nigh  lost  his  life  upon  the  dreary  moorland 
road  to  Marlej  Water. 


DARRELL  MARKHAMj  OR 


CHAPTEB  IV.— Captain  Duke  Proves  an  Alibi. 

Darrell  Markham  did  not  die  from  the  effects  of  tliat  excitement  which  the 
doctor  said  might  be  so  fatal.  He  was  very  slow  to  recover;  so  slow  that  the 
snow  lay  white  upon  the  moorland  before  the  windows  of  the  Black  Bear,  before 
the  shattered  arm  was  firmly  knit  together,  or  the  enfeebled  frame  restored  to  its . 
native  vigor.  It  was  a  dreary  and  tedious  illness.  Honest  Sarah  Pecker  was 
nearly  worn  out  with  nursing  her  sick  boy,  as  she  insisted  on  calling  Darrell.  The 
weak-eyed  Samuel  was  made  to  wear  list  shoes  and  to  creep  like  a  thief  about 
his  roomy  hostelry.  The  evening  visitors  were  sent  into  a  dark  tap-room  at  the 
back  of  the  house,  that  the  t>ound  of  their  revelry  might  not  disturb  the  sick  man. 
Gloom  and  sadness  reigned  in  the  Black  Bear  until  that  happy  day  upon  which 
Doctor  .Tordau  pronounced  his  patient  to  be  out  of  danger.  Sarah  Pecker  gave 
away  a  barrel  of 'the  strongest  ale  upon  that  joyous  afternoon,  giving  freely  to 
every  loiterer  who  stopped  to  ask  after  poor  Maister  Darrell 

Captain  GeoYge  Duke  was  away  on  a  brief  voyage  round  the  Spanish  coast, 
when  Darrell  began  to  mend ;  but  by  the  time  the  young  man  had  completely  re- 
covered, the  sailor  returned  to  Compton. 

The  snow  was  thick  in  the  narrow  street  when  the  Captain  came  back.  He 
found  Milliccnt  sitting  in  her  old  attitude#by  the  fire,  reading  a  novel. 

But  he  was  in  a  better  temper  than  usual,  and  looked  wonderfully  handsome 
and  dashing  in  his  weather-beaten  uniform.  Not  quite  the  King's  uniform,  as 
some  people  said ;  very  like  it,  but  yet  with  slight  technical  differences,  that  told 
against  the  Captain. 

He  caught  Milliccnt  in  his  arms,  and  gave  her  a  hearty  kiss  upon  each  cheek, 
before  he  had  time  to  notice  the  faint  repellarjt  shuddjer. 

1  I've  come  home  to  you  laden  with  good  things,  Mistress  Milly,'  he  said,  as  he 
seated  himself  opposite  to  her,  while  the  stout  servant-maid  piled  fresh  logs  upon 
the  blazing  fire.  'A  chest  of  oranges,  and  a  cask  of  wine  from  Cadiz — liquid 
gold,  my  girl,  and  almost  as  precious  as  the  sterling  metal ;  and  I've  a  heap  of 
pretty  barbarous  trumpery  for  you  to  fasten  on  your  white  neck  and  arms,  and 
hang  in  your  rosy  little  ears.'  The  Captain  took  an  old-fashioned,  queerly  shaped 
bather  case  from  his  pocket, wind  opening  it,  spread  out  a  quantity  of  foreign  jew- 
elry, that  glittered  and  twinkled  in  the  fire-light.  Arabesqued  gold  of  wonderful 
workmanship,  and  strange,  outlandish,  many-colored  gems  sparkled  upon  the  dark 
<>ak  table,  and  reflected  themselves  deep  down  in  the  polished  wood,  like  stars  in 
a  river. 

Milliccnt  blushed  as  she  bent  over  the  trinkets,  and  stammered  out  some  gen- 
tle, grateful  phrases.  She  was  blushing  to  think  how  little  she  cared  for  all  these 
gew-gaws,  and  how  her  soul  was  set  on  other  treasures  which  never  could  be — the 
treasures  of  Darrell's  deep  and  honest  love. 

As  she  was  thinking  this,  the  Captain  looked  up  at  her  carelessly,  as  it  seemed, 
but  in  reality,  with  a  very  searching  glance  in  his  flashing  brown  eyes. 

'  Obj  by-the-byc,'  he  said,  '  how  is  that  pretty  fair-haired  cousin  of  yours  ?  Has 
he  recovered  from  that  affair?  or  was  it  his  death?'. 


THE  CAPTAIN'  OF  THE  VULTURE.  07 

There  was  a  malicious  sparkle  in  his  eyes,  as  he  watched  her  shiver  at  that 
cruel  word,  Death. 

'  That's  another  figure  iu  the  long  score  between,  you  and  I,  my  lady.'  Re 
thought. 

'  Tie  is  much  better.     Iudeed,  he  is  nearly  well,'  Millicent  said,  quietly. 

'  Have  you  seen  him  ?' 

'Never  since  the  night  on  which  you  found  me  at  his  bedside.' 

She  looked  up  at  him  calmly,  almost  proudly,  as  she  spoke.  It  was  a  look  that 
seemed  to  Bay,  '  I  have  a  clear  conscience,  and  do  what  you  will,  you  cannot  make 
me  blush  or  falter.' 

She  had  indeed  a  clear  conscience.  Many  times  Sarah  Pecker  had  come  to 
her  and  said,  'Your  cousin  is  very  low  to-night,  Miss  Millicent;  come  and  sit  be- 
side him',  if  it's  only  for  half  an  hour,  to  cheer  him  up  a  bit.  Poor  old  Sally  will 
be  with  you,  and  where  she  is,  the  hardest  can't  say  there's  harm.' 

But  Millicent  had  always  steadily  refused,  saying,  '  It  would  only  make  us  both 
unhappy,  Sally  dear,      ['d  rather  not  come.' 

None  knew  how,  sometimes  late  at  night,  when  the  maid-servant  had  gone  \>> 
bed,  and  the  lights  in  the  upper  windows  of  Comptou  High  Street  had  been  one 
by  one  extinguished,  this  same  inflexible  Millicent  would  steal  out,  muffled  in  a 
long  cloak  of  shadowy  grey,  and  creep  to  the  roadway  under  the  Black  Bear,  to 
stand  for  ten  miuutes  in  the  snow  and  rain,  watching  the  faint  light  that  shone, 
from  the  window  of  the  room  where  Darrell.  Markham  lay.     - 

Once,  standing  ankle-deep  in  snow,  she  saw  Sarah  Pecker  open  the  window  to 
look  out  at  the  night,  and  heard  his  voice,  faint  iu  the  distance,  asking  if  it  were 
snowing.* 

She  burst  into  tears  at  the  sound  of  this  feeble  voice.  It  seemed  so  long  since 
she  had  heard  it,  she  fancied  she  might  never  hear  it  again. 

Oue  of  the  Vulture' '#  men  brought  the  case  of  oranges  and  the  cask  of  sherry 
from  Marley  to  Compton  upon  the  very  night  of  the  Captain's  return,  and  Georg  ■ 
Duke  drank  half  a  bottle  of  the  liquid  gold  before  he  went  to  bed.  He  tried  in 
vain  to  induce  Millicent  to  taste  the  topaz-colored  liquor.  She  liked  Sarah 
Pecker's  cowslip  wine  better  than   the  finest   sherry  ever  grown  in  the  Peninsula. 

Early  the  next  morning  the  Compton  constable  came  to  the  cottage  armed  with 
a  warrant  for  the  apprehension  of  Captain  George  Duke,  ou  a  charge  of  assault 
and  robbery  on  the  King's  highway.  Pale  with  suppressed  fury,  the  Captain 
strode  into  the  little  parlour  where  Millicent  was  seated  at  breakfast. 

1  Pray,  Mistress  Millicent,'  he  said,  'who  has  set  on  your  pretty  cousin  to  trjC 
and  hang  an  innocent  man,  with  the  intent  to  make  a  hempen  widow  of  you,  a8  1 
suppose:'     What  is  the  meaning  of  this  V 

'Of  what,  George?'  she  asked,  bewildered  by  his  manner. 

He-  told  her  the  whole  story  of  the  warrant.  '  < )!'  course,'  he  said,  'you  re- 
member this  Master  Darrell's  crying  out  it  was  I  who  shot  him?" 

'  I  do,  George ;  I  thought  then  it  was  some  strange  feverish  delusion,  and  I 
think  so  now.' 

'  I  scarcely  expected  so  much  of  your  courtesy,  Mistress  Duke,'  answered  her 
husband.  '  Luckily  for  me,  1  can  pretty  easily  clear  myself  from  this  mad- 
brained  charge,  but  I'm  not  the  less  grateful  to  Darrell  Markham  for  his  kind 
intent  ' 


DARRELL  MARKHAM ;  OR 

They  took  Captain  Duke  at  once  to  the  magistrate's  parlour,  where  he  found 
1  tarreU  Markhain  seated,  pale  from  his  .long  illness,  and  with  his  arm  still  in  a 
sling, 

'Thank  you,  Mr?  Markhain,  jbr  this  good  turn/  said  the  Captain,  folding  his 
arms  and  placing  himself  against  the  doorway  of  the  magistrate's  room ;  *  we 
shall  find  an  opportunity  of  squaring  our  accounts,  I  dare  say.' 

The  worthy  magistrate  was  not  a  little  puzzled  as  to  how  to 'deal  with  the  case 
before  him.  Little  as  was  known  in  Compton  of  Captain  George  Duke,  it  seemed 
incredible  that  the  husband'  of  Squire  Markham's  daughter  could  be  guilty  of 
highway  robbery. 

J  >arrell  stated  his  charge  in  the  simplest  and  most  straightforward  fashion.  He 
had  ridden  away  from  the  Black  Bear  to  go  to  Marley  Water.  Three  miles  from 
( Ymipton,  a  man,  whom  he  swore  to  as  the  accused,  rode  up  to  him  and  demanded 
his  purse  and  watch.  He  drew  his  pistol  from  his  belt,  but  while  he  was  cocking 
it,  the  man,  Captain  Duke,  fired,  shot  him  in  the  arm,  and  dragging  him  off 
his  horse,  threw  him  into  the  mud.  He  remembered  nothing  more  until  he 
awoke  in  the  hall  at  the  Black  Bear,  and  recognized  the  accused  amongst  the 
bystanders, 
.The  magistrate  coughed  dubiously. 

'  Cases  of  mistaken  identity  have  not  been  uncommon  in  the  judicial  history  of 
this  country,'  he  said  sententiously.  l  Can  you  swear,  Mr.  Markham,  that  the 
man  who  attacked  you  was  Captain  George  Duke?' 

'  If  that  man  standing  against  the  door  is  Captain  Duke,  I  can  solemnly  swear 
that  he  is  the  man  who  robbed  me.' 

'  When  you  were  found  by  the  persons  who  picked  you  up,  was  yoar  horse 
found  also  r  * 

'  No;  the  horse  was  gone.'  « 

'  Would  you  know  him  again  ?'  .  ' 

'  Know  him  again  ?  What,  honest  Balmerino?  I  should  know  him  amongst 
a  thousand.' 

'Hum!'  said  the  magistrate;  'that  is  a  great  point;  I  consider  the  horse  a 
great  point.' 

He  pondered  so  long  over  this  very  important  part  of  the  case  that  his  clerk 
had  to  nudge  him  respectfully,  and  whisper  something  in  his  ear  before  he  went 
on  again. 

'Oh,  ah,  yes,  to  be  sure,  of  course,' he  muttered,  helplessly;  then,  clearing 
his  throat,  he  said,  in  his  magisterial  voice,  '  Pray,  Captain  Duke,  what  have  you 
to  say  to  this  charge  V 

*  Very  little,'  said  the  Captain,  quietly ;  '  but  before  I  speak  at  all,  I  should  be 
glad  if  you  would  send  for  Mr.  Samuel  Pecker,  of  the  Black  Bear.'  . 

The  magistrate  whispered  to  the  clerk,  and  the  clerk  nodded,  on  which  the 
magistrate  said,  'Go,  one. of  you,  and  fetch  the  aforesaid  Samuel  Pecker.' 

While  one  of  the  hangers-on  was  gone  upon  this  errand,  the  worthy  magistrate 
nodded  over  his  Flying  Post,  the  clerk  mended  the  fire,  and  Mr.  Darrell  Mark- 
hain and  theCaptain  stared  fiercely  at  each  other— an  ominous  red  glimmer  burn- 
ing in  the  sailor's  brown  eyes.. 

Mr.  Pecker  came,  with  a  white  face  and  limp,  disordered  hair,  to  attend  the 
magisterial  summons.     He  had  some  vague  idea  that  handn°;  misrht  be  the  result 


THE  CAPTAIN'  OF  THE  VULTURE.  o<, 

of  this  morning's  work;  or  that,  happily  escaping  that,  he  would  suffer  a  hundred 
moral  deaths  at  the  hands  of  Sarah,  his  wife.  He  could  not  for  a  moment  imagine 
that  he  could  possibly  be  wanted  in  the  magistrate's  parlour,  unless  accused  of 
some  monstrous,  though  unconsciously-committed  crime. 

He  gave  a  faint  gasp  of  relief  when  some  one  in  the  room  whispered  to  him 
that  he  was  required  as  a  witness. 

'  Xow,  Captain  Duke,'  said  the  magistrate,  '  what  have  you  to  say  to  this  V 

f  Will  you  be  good  enough  to  ask  Mr.  Darrell  Markham  two  or  three  ques- 
tions '.'' 

The  magistrate  looked  at  the  clerk,  the  clerk  nodded  to  the  magistrate,  and  the 
magistrate  nodded  an  assent  to  Captain  Duke's  request. 

'  Will  you  ask  if  he  knows  at  what  time  the  assault  was  committed  ?' 

Before  the  magistrate  could  interpose,  Darrell  Markham  spoke — 

4 1  happen  to  be  able  to  answer  that  question  with  certainty,'  he  said.  '  The 
wind  was  blowing  straight  across  the  moor,  and  I  distinctly  heard  Compton 
church  clock  chime  the  three-quarters  after  seveu  as  the  mau  rode  up  to  me.' 

1  As  I  rode  up  to  you  V  asked  George  Duke. 

1  As  you  rode  up  to  me,'  answered  Darrell. 

1  Mr.  Samuel  Pecker,  will  you  be  so  good  as  to  tell  the  magistrate  where  I  was 
at  a  quarter  to  eight  o'clock  upon  the  night  of  the  27th  of  October  V 

'  You  were  in  the  parlour  at  the  Bear,  Captain,'  answered  Samuel,  in  short 
g  tsps  ;  '  and  you  come  in  and  ask  the*  time,  which  I  went  out  to  look  at  our  eight- 
day  on  the  stairs*,  it  ^vere  ten  minutes  to  eight  exact  by  father's  eight  day,  as 
is  never  a  minute  wrong.'        * 

'There  were  other  people  iu  the  parlour  that  night  who  saw  me  and  who  heard 
me  ask  the  question,  were  there  not,  Mr.  Pecker?' 

'There  were  a  many  of  'em,'  replied  Samuel;  'which  they  saw  you  wind  your 
4  watch  by  lather's  Sight-day ;  for  it  weren't,  you,  Captain  Duke',' as  robbed  Master 
Darrell,  but  /  know  who  it  were.' 

There  was  stupefaction  in  the  court  at  this  extraordinary  Assertion. 

'You  know!'  cried  the  magistrate;  'then,  pray,  why  have  you  withheld  the 
knowledge  from  those  entitled  to  hear  it  ?  This  is  very  bad,  Mr-.  Pecker  ;  vei  \ 
bad,  indeed  !' 

The  unhappy  Samuel  felt  that  he  was  in  for  it. 

1  It  were  no  more  Captain  Duke  thau  it  were  mo,''  he  gasped  ;  '  it  were  the 
other." 

'  The  other  !     What  other  ?'  „     • 

'  Him  as  stopped  his  horse  at  the  door  of  the  Black -Bear,  and  asked  the  w:i\ 
to  Marley  Water.' 

Nothing  could  remove  Samuel   Pecker  from   this  position.     Questioned  and« 
{-questioned  by  the  magistrate,  the  clerk,  and  Darrell  Markham,  he  steaof';ist!\ 
declared  that  a  man  so  cloudy  resembling  Captain    Duke  as  to  deceive  both  him- 
self and  Johu   Homerton,  the  blacksmith,  had  .-topped  at  the  Black  Bear,  ami 
1  the  way  to  Marley. 
He  gasped  and  stuttered  and  choked  and   bewildered  himself,  but  he  neither 
prevaricated  nor  broke  down  in  his  assertions,  and  he  begged  that  John  Hornet- 
ton  might  l.e  summoned  to  confirm  his  statement. 

John  Homerton  was  summoned,  and  declared  that  to  the  best  of  his  belief,  it 


DARRELL  ifARKKAM  ;  OR 

Captain   Duke  who  stopped  at  the  Black  Bear,  while  he,  Master  Darrell 
Markham,  and  the  landlord  were  standing  at  the  door. 

But  this  assertion  was  shivered  in  a  moment  by  an  alabi.  A  quarter  of  an 
hour  after,  the  traveller  had  ridden  off  towards  Marley,  Captain  J  Hike  walked  up 
to  the  inn  from  the  direction  of  the  High  Street. 

Neither  the  magistrate  nor  the  clerk  had  anything  to  say  to  this.  The  affair 
seemed  altogether  in  a  mystery,  for  which  the  legal  experience  of  the  Compton 
worthies  could  furnish  no  parallel. 

If  .James  Dobbs  assaulted  Farmer  Hobbs,  it  was  easy  to  deal  with  him  accord- 
ing to  the  precedent  afforded  by  the  celebrated , case  of  Jones  vs.  Smith;  but  the 
affair  of  to-day  stood  aloue  in  the  judicial  records  of  Compton. 

While  the  magistrate  and  his  factotum  consulted  together,  in  a  whisper,  without 
-jetting  any  nearer  to  a  decision,  George  Duke  himself  came  to  their  rescue. 

1 1  suppose  after  the  charge  having  broken  down  in  this  manner,  I  need' not 
stop  here  any  longer,  sir,'  he  said. 

The  magistrate  caught  at  (his  chance  of  extrication. 

1  The  charge  kas  broken  down/  he  said,  with  solemn  importance,  l  and,  as  you 
ol  Berve,  Captain  Duke,  and  as  indeed  I  was  about  to  observe  myself,  we  need  not 
detain. you  any  longer.  You  leave  this  room  with  as  good  a  character  as  that 
with  which  you  entered  it,'  he  added,  while  a  slight  titter  circulated  among  some 
of  the  bystanders  at  this  rather  ambiguous  compliment.  '  I  am  sorry,  Mr.  Mark- 
ham,  that  this  affair  is  so,  involved  in  mystery.  It  is  evidently  a  case  of  mistaken 
identity,  one  of  the  most  difficult  class  of  cases  that  the  law  ever  has  to  deal  with; . 
but,  as  I  said  before,  I  consider  the  missing  horse  a  great  point — a  very,  strong 
point.'      . 

The  Captain  and  Darrell  Markham  left  the  room  at  the  same  time. 

'  I  have  an  account  to  settle  with  you,  Mr.  Markhani,  for  this  morning's  work/ 
Captain  Duke  whispered  to  his  accuser.  • 

•  I  do  not  fight  with  highwaymen/  Darrell  answered,  proudly. 

•  AVhat,  you  still  dare  to  insinuate  — : —  V    . 

'  I  dare  to  say  that  I  don't  believe  in  this  story  of  George  Duke  and  his  double. 
I  believe  that  you  proved  an  alabi  by  some  juggling  with  the  clock  at  the  Black 
Pear)  and  I  most  firmly  believe  that  you  are  the  man  who  shot  me  !' 

•  You  shall  pay  for  this/  hissed  the  Captain,  through  his  set  teeth;  '  you'shall 
pi  y  double  for  every  insolent  word,  Darrell  Markham,  before  you  and  I  have  done 
with  each  other.' 

He  strode  away,  after  flinging  one  dark,  wicked  look  at  his  wife's  cousin,  and 
returned  to  the  cottage  where  Millieent,  pale  and  anxious,  was  awaiting  the  result 
of  the  morning 

Darrell  Markham  left  Compton  by  the  mail  coach  that  very  night ;  and  poorer 
by  the  l"ss  of  his  horse,  his  watch,  and  purse,  set  forth  once  more  to  seek  his 
fortune  in  cruel,  stony-hearted  London. 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE.  31 


CHAPTER  V. — Milligent  Meets  Her  Husband's  Shadow. 

• 

A  fortnight  after  Darrell's  departure,  the  good  ship  VulfUre  was  nearly  ready 
for  another  cruise,  and  Captain  l)ukc  rode  off  to  Marley  Water  to  superintend 
the  final  preparations. 

*  I  shall  sail  on  the  thirtieth,  Milly,'  he  said,  the  day  he  left  Compton,  '  and  as 
1  -han't  have  time  to  ride  over  here  and  say  good-bye  to  you,  1  should  like  you 
to  come  to  Marley,  and  see  rue  before  I  start ' . 

•  '  I  will  come,  if  you  wish,  George,'  sbeansw'ered,  quietly.  She  was  always  gen- 
tle and  obedient,  something  as  a  child  might  have  been  to  a  hard  taskmaster,  bul 
in  no  way  like  a  wife  who  loved  her  husband. 

'  Aery  good.  There's  a  branch  coach  passes  through  here  three  times  a  week 
from  York  to  Carlisle  ;  it  stops  at  .Marley  Water.  You  can  come 'by  that,  Milli- 
eent. ' 

'  Yes,  George.'  , 

The  snow  never  melted  upon  Compton  Moor  throughout  the  dark  January  days. 
Millicent  felt  a  strauge,  dull  aching  at  her  heart  as  she  stood  before  the  door  of 
the  Black  Hear  wailing  for  the  Carlisle  coach,  and  watching  the  dreary  expanse 
of  glisten ing  white  that  stretched  far  away  to  the  dark  horizon.  She  had  seen  it 
often  under  the  tenantless  moonlight  when  Darrell  Markham  was  lying  on  his 
sick  bed.      Dismal  as  that  sad  time  had  been,  .she  looked  back  on  it  with  a  sigh. 

•  fie  was  near  her  then,  she  thought,  and  now  he  was  lost,  in  the  wild  vortex  of 
terrible  London — lost  to  her,  perhaps,  forever. 

Mrs  Sarah  Pecker  cried  out  indignantly  at  this  wintry  journey. 

'  What  does  the  Captain  mean  by  it/  she  said,  '  sending  off  a  poor  delicate 
lamb  like  you  four-and-twenty  mile  in  a  old  fusty  stage-coach  upon  such  a  after- 
noon as  this.  If  he  wants  you  to  catch  your  death,  Miss  Milly,  he's  a-going  the 
right  way  to  bring  about  his  wicked  wishes.' 

The  great,  heavy,  lumbering,  broad-shouldered  coach  drove  up  wlule  Mistress 
Pecker  was  still  holding  forth  upon  this  subject. .  One  or  two  of  the  inside  pas- 
gers  looked  out  and  asked  for  brandy-and-water  while  the  horses  were  being 
changed.  Some  of  the  oufaides  clambered  down  from  the  roof  of  the  vehicle,  and 
went  into  the  Black  Bear  to  warm  themselves  at  the  blazing  fire  in  the  parlour  and 
drink  a. glass  of  raw  spirits.  One  man  seated  upon  the  box  refused!  to  alight, 
when  asked  to  do  BO  by  another  passenger,  and  sat  with  his  face  turned  away 
from  the  inn,  looking  straight  out  upon  the  snowy  moorland. 

If  even  this  man's  face  had  been  turned  towards  the  little  group   at  the  door  of 
the  Black  Hear,  they  would  have  had  considerable  difficulty  in  distinguishing  his 
ires,  for  he  wore  his  three-cornered   hat  slouched  over  his  eyes,  and  the  collar 
of  his  thick  horseman's  coal  drawn  close  up  to  his  ears. 

'  He's  a  grim  customer  up  yonder,'  said  the  man  who  had  spoken  to  this  outside 
pass*  ti-er,  designating  him  by  a  jerk  of  the  head — '  a  regular  grim  customer.  I 
wonder  what  he  IS,  and  where  he's  goinj 

Mistress  Pecker  assisted  Milliccnt  into  the  coach,  settled  her  in  a  warm  corner, 
uDd  wrapped  her  camlet  cloak  about  Her. 


32 


DARRELL  MARKHAM :  OR 


'  You'd  better  have  one  of  Samuel's  comforters  for  your  throat,  Miss  Milly/  she 
said,  '  and  one  of  his  coats  to  wrap  about  your  feet.  Its  bitter  weather  for  such 
a  journey.? 

Millicent  declined  the  coat  and  the  comforter;  but  she  kissed  her  old  nurse  as 
the  coachman  drew  his  horses  together  for  the  start. 

'  God  bless  you,  Sally,'  she  said  ;  '  I  wish  the  journey  was  over  and  done  with.- 
and  that  I  was  back  again  with  you.' 

The  coach  drove  off  before  Mrs.  Pecker  could  answer. 

1  Poor  dear  child,'  said  the  inn-keeper's  wife,  '  to  think  of  her  going  out  alom- 
and  friendless  on  such  a  day  as  this.  She  wishes  she. was  back  with  us,  she  said. 
I  sometimes  think  there's  a  look  m  her  poor  mournful  blue  eyes,  as  if  she  wished 
she  was  lying  quiet  and  calm  in  Compton  churchyard.' 

The  high  road  from  Compton  to  Marley  Water  wound  amongst  bleak  and  ste- 
rile moors,  passing  now  and  then  a  l'ong  straggling  village  or  a  lonely  farm-house. 
It  was  longer  by  this  road  than  by  the.  moorland  bridle  path,  and  it  was  quite  dark 
■when  the  stage  coach  drove  over  the  uneven  pavement  of  the  high-street  of  Marley 
Water. 

Millicent  found  her  husband  waiting  for  her  at  the  inn  where  the  coach  stopped. 

'You're  just  in  time,  Milly,'  he  said . ;  'the  Vulture  sails  to. night.' 

Captain  Duke  was  stopping  at  a  tavern  on  the  quay.  He  put  Millicent's  arm 
iu  his,  and  led  her  through  the  narrow  high-street. 

This  Principal  street  of  Marley  Water  was  lighted  here  and  there  by  feeble  oil- 
lamps,  which  shed  a  wan  light  upon  the  figures  of  the  foot-passengers. 

Glancing  behind  her,  once,  bewildered  by  the  strange  bustle  of  the  busy  little 
seaport  town,  Millicent  was  surprised  to  see  the  outside  passenger  whom  she  had 
observed  at  Compton,  following  close  upon  their  heels. 

Captain  Duke  felt  the  little  hand  tighten  upon  his  arm  with  a  nervous  shiver. 

'  What  made  you  start  ?'  he  asked. 

'The— the  man  !' 

'Whatman?' 

'  A  man  who  traveled  outside  the  coach,  and  whose  face  was. quite  concealed  by 
his  hat  and  cloak.  '  He  is  just  behind  us.' 

George  Duke  looked  back,  but  the  outside  passenger  was  no  longer  to  be  seen. 

•  What  a  silly  child  you  are,  Millicent,'  he  said.  '  What  is  there  so  wonderful 
in  your  seeing  one  of  your  fellow-passengers  in  the  high-street  ten  minutes  after 
the  coach  has  stopped  V 

1  But  "he  seemed  to  be  following  us.' 

'  Why,  my  country  wench,  people  walk  close  behind  each  other  in  busy  town- 
without  any  such  thought  as  following  their  neighbors.  Millicent.  Millicent,  when 
will  you  learn  to  be*  wise  V 

The  Captain  of  the  Vulture  seemed  in  unusually  good  spirits  this  late  January 
night 

'  I  shall  be  far  away  upon  the  blue  water  in  twenty-four  hours,  Milly,'  he  said. 
'  No  one  but  a  sailor  can  tell  a  sailor's  weariness  of  land.'  I  heard  of  your 
brother  llingwood  last  night.' 

'Bad  news?'  asked  Millicent  anxiously. 

1  No ;  good  news  for  you,  who  will  come  in  for  his  money  if  he  dies  unmarried. 
He's  leading  a  wild  life,  and  wasting  his  substance  in  taverns,  and  worse  place.- 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE.  33 

than  taverns.     Luckily  for  the  boy,  Coinpton  property  is  safely  secured,  so  that 
he  can  neither  scll°nor  mortgage  it.' 

The  little  inn  at  which  George  Duke  was  stopping  faced  the  water,  and  Milli- 
cent  could  see  the  lights  on  board  the  Vulture,  gleaming  far  away  through  the 
winter  night,  from  the  window  of  the  little  parlor  where  supper  was  laid  out  ready 
for  the  traveller. 

'At  what  o'clock  do  you  sail,  George  ?'  she  asked.     * 

1  A  little  before  midnight.  You  cau  go  down  to  the  pier  with  me,  and  see  the 
last  of  me,  and  you  can  get  back  to  Compton  by  the  return  coach  to-morrow 
morning.' 

'  I  will  do  exactly  as  you  please.     Will  this  voyage  be  a  long  one,  George  V 

1  Not  long.     I  shall  be  back  in  three  mouths  at  the  latest.' 

Her  heart  sank  at  his  ready  answer.  She  was  always  so  much  happier  in  his 
absence.  Happy  in  her  trim  little  cottage,  her  stout,  good-tempered  servants,  the 
friends  who  had  known  her  from  her  childhood,  her  novels,  her  old  companion, 
the  faithful  brown  aud  white  spaniel — happy  in  all  these — happy,  too,  in  her  un- 
disturbed memories  of  Darrell  Markbam. 

While  George  and  his  wife  were  seated  at  the  little  supper-table,  one  of  the  ser- 
vants of  the  inn  came  to  say  that  Captain  Duke  was  wanted. 

'  Who  wants  inc.?'  he  asked,  impatiently. 

'  A  man  wrapped  in  a  horseman's  coat,  and  with  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  Captain.' 

'  Did  you  tell  hiul  that  I  was  busy;  that  I  was  just  going  to  sail?' 

'  I  did,  Captain ;  but  he  says  that  he  must  see  you.  He  has  traveled  above 
two  hundred  miles  on  purpose.' 

An  angry  darkness  spread  itself  over  the  Captain's  handsome  face. 

'  Curse  such  interruption,'  he  said,  savagely.  '  Let  him  come  up  stairs.  Here, 
Millicent,'  he  added,  when  the  waiter  had  left  the  room,  'take  one  of  those  can- 
dles, and  go  into  the  opposite  chamber;  it  is  my  sleeping  room.  Quick,  girl, 
quick.' 

He  thrust  the  candlestick  into  her  hand  with  an  impatient  gesture,  and  almost 
pushed  her  out  of  the  room,  in  his  flurry  and  agitation. 

She  hurried  acsosa  the  landing-place  into  the  opposite  chamber,  but  not  before 
she  had  recognized  in  the  man  ascending  the  stairs  the  outside  passcuger  who 
had  followed  them  in  the  high-street;  not  before  she  had  heard  her  husband  say, 
as  he  shut  the  parlour  door  upon  himself  and  his  visitor — 

*  You  here  !     By  heaven,  I  guessed  as  much.' 

Some  logs  burned  upon  the  open  hearth  in  the  Captain's  bed-room,  aud  Milli- 
cent seated  herself  on  a  low  stool  before  the  warm  blaze.  She  sat  for  upwards  of 
an  hour  wonderiug  at  this  stranger's  lengthened  interview  with  her  husband. 
Once  she  went  on  to  the  landing  to  see  if  the  visitor  had  left.  She  heard  the 
voices  of  the  two  men  raised  as  if  in  anger,  but  she  could  not  hear  their  words. 

The  clock  was  striking  eleven  as  the  parlour  door  opened  and  the  stranger  de- 
scended the  stairs.  Captain  Duke  crossed  the  landing-place  aud  looked  into  the 
bed-room  where  Millicent  sat  brooding  over  the  fire. 

'Come,'  he  said,  '  I  have  little  better  than  half  an  hour  to  get  off;  put  ou  your 
clonk  and  conic  with  me.' 

It  was  a  bitter  cold  night,  but  the  moon  was  nearly  at  the  full,  and  shone  upon 
the  stone  pier  and  the  white  quays  with  a  cold,  steely  light,  that  gave  a  ghostly 
3 


34 


DARRELL  MARKHAM ;   OR 


brightness  to  every  objeet  upon  which  it  fell.  The  outlines  of  the  old-fashioned 
houses  along  the  quay  were  cut  black  and  sharp  against  this -blue  light;  every 
coil  of  rope  and  idle  anchor,  every  bag  of  ballast  lying  upon  the  edge  of  the  para- 
pet, every  chain  and  post,  and  iron  ring  attached  to  the  solid  masonry,  was  visible 
in  this  winter  moonlight.  The  last  brawlers  had  left  the  tavern  on  the-  quay,  the 
last  stragglers  had  deserted  the  narrow  streets,  the  last  dim  lights  had  been  ex- 
tinguished .  in  the  upper »windows,  and  Marley  Water,  at  a  little  after  eleven 
o'clock,  was  as  still  as  the  quiet  churchyard  at  Comptou-on-the-Moor. 

Millicent  shivered  as  she  walked  by  her  husband's  side  %  along  the  main  quay ; 
once  or 'twice  she  glanced  at  him  furtively;  she  could  see  the  sharp  lines  of  his 
profile  against  the  purple  atmosphere,  and  she  could  see  by,  his  face  that  he  had 
some  trouble  on  his  mind.  They  turned  off  the  quay  on  to  the  pier  which 
stretched  far  out  into  the  water. 

1  The  boat  is  to  wait  for  me  at  the  othev  end/  said  Captain  Duke.  '  The  tide 
has  turned,  and  the  wind  is  in  our  favour.' 

He  walked  for  some  time  in  silence,  Millicent  watching  him  timidly  all  the 
while;  presently  he  turned  to  her,  and  said,  abruptly — 

*  Mistress  George  Duke,  have  you  a  ring  or  any  such  foolish  trinket  about 

you?' 

'A  ring,  George?'  she  said,  bewildered  by  the  suddenness  of  the  question. 

'A  ring,  a  brooch,  a  locket,  a  ribbon,  anything  which  you  could  swear  to  twenty 
years  hence  if  need  were.' 

She  had  a  locket  hanging  about  her  throat  which  had  been  given  to  her  by 
Darrell,  than  which  she  would  have  sooner  parted  with  her  life. 

'A  locket?'  she  said,  hesitating. 

4  Anything  !     Haven't  I  said  before,  anything  ?' 
.  '  I  have  the  little  diamond  ear-rings  in  my  ears,  George.' 

'  Give  me  one  of  them,  then ;  I  have  a  fancy  to  take  some  token  of  you  with 
me  on  my  voyage.     The  ear-ring  will  do/ 

She  took  the  jewel  from  her  ear  and  handed  it  to  him.  She  was  too  indifferent 
to  him  and  to  all  things  in  her  weary  life  even  to  wonder  at  his  motive  in  asking 
for  the  trinket. 

'This  is  better  than  anything,  Millicent,'  he  said,  slipping  the.  jewel  into  his 
waistcoat  pocket ;  '  the  ear-rings  are  of  Indian  Workmanship,  and  of  a  rare  pat- 
tern. Remember,  Millicent,  the  man  who  comes  to  you  and  calls  himself  your 
husband,  yet  cannot  give  you  this  diamond  ear-ring,  will  not  be  George  Duke.' 

'What  do  you  mean,  George?'  .       j 

'  When  I  return  to  Compto'n,  ask  me  for  the  fellow  jewel  to  that  in  your  ear. 
If  I  cannot  show  it  to  you ' 

1  What  then,  George  V  • 

*  Drive  me  from  your  door  as  an  impostor.' 
'  But  you  may  lose  it.'   . 

'I  shall  not  lose  it.' 

He  relapsed  into  silence.  They  walked  on  towards  the  farther  end  of  the  long 
pier,  their  shadows  stretching  out  before  them  black  upon  the  moonlit  stones. 

They  were  half  a  mile  from  the  quay,  and  they  were  alone  upon  the  pier,  with 
no  sound  to  wake  the  silence  but  the  echoes  of  their  own  footsteps  and  the  noise 
of  the  waves  dashing  against  the  stone  bulwarks. 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE.  35 

The  Vulture's  boat  was  waiting  at  the  end  of*  the  pier.  Captain  George  Duke 
took  his  wife  in  his  arms  and  pressed  his  lips  to  her  cold  forehead 

'  You  will  have  a  lonely  walk  back  to  the  inn,  Millicent,'  he  said;  'but  I  have 
told  them  to  make  you  comfortable;  and  to  see  you  safely  off  by  the"  return  coach 
to-morrow  morning.  Good-bye,  and  God  bless  you.  Remember  what  I  have  told 
you  to-night.' 

Something  in  his  manner — a  tenderness  that  was  strange  to  him — touched  her 
gentle  heart. 

She  stopped  him  as  he  was  about  to  descend  the  steps. 

'It  has  been  my  unhappiness  that  1  have  never  been  a  good  wife  to  you,  George 
Duke.     I  will  pray  for  your  safety  while  you  are  far  away  upon  the  cruel  sea.' 

The  Captain  pressed  her  trembling  little  hand.  . 

•  Good-bye,  Millicent,'  he  said,  '  and  remember.' 

Before  she  could  answer  him  he  was  gone.  She  saw  the  men  push  the  boat  oft 
from  the  steps  *  she  heard  the  regular  strokes  ot  the  oars  plashing  through  the 
water,  the  little  craft  skimming  lightly  over  the  surface  of  the  waves. 

He  was  gone ;  she  could  return  to  her  quiet  cottage  at  Compton,  her  novel 
reading,  her  old  friends,  her  undisturbed  recollections  of  Darrell  Markham. 

She  stood  watching  the  boat  till  it  grew  into  a  dim,  black  speck  upon  the 
moonlit  waters ;  then  she  slowly  turned  and  walked  towards  the  quay. 

A  long,  lonely  walk  at  that  dead  hour  of  the  night  for  such  a  delicately  nur- 
tured woman  as  Millicent  Duke  !  She  was  not  a  courageous  woman  either ;  rather 
over-sensitive  and  nervous,  as  the  reader  knows;  fond  of  reading  silly  romances, 
such  as  people  wrote  a  century  ago,  full  of  mysteries  and  horroi-s,  of  haunted 
chambers,  secret  passages,  midnight  encounters,  and  masked  assassins. 

The  clocks  of  Marley  Water  began  to  strike  twelve  as  she  approached  the 
centre  of  the  desolate  pier.  One  by  one,  the  different  iron  voices  slowly  rang  out 
the  hour;  smaller  voices  in  the  distance  taking  up  the  sound,  and  all  Marley  and 
all  the  sea,  to  he^'  fancy,  tremulous  with  the  sonorous  vibration.  As  the  last 
stroke  from  the  last  clock  died  away  and  the  sleeping  town  relapsed  into  silence, 
she  heard  the  noise  of  a  man's  footstep  slowly 'approaching  her. 

She  must  meet  him  and  pass  by  him  in  order  to  reach  the  quay. 

She  had  a  strange  vague  fear  of  this  encounter.  He  might  be  a  highwayman, 
he  might  attack  and  attempt  to  rob  her. 

The  poor  girl  was  prepared  to  throw  her  purse  and  all'  her  little  trinkets  at  his 
feet — all  but  1  >arrcll's  locket. 

Still  the  footsteps  slowly  approached.  The  stranger  came  nearer  and  nearer  in 
the  ghastly  moonlight — nearer,  until  he  came  face  to  face  with  Millicent  Duke. 

Then  she  stopped.  She  meant  to  have  hurried  by  the  man,  to  have  avoided 
even  being  seen  by  him,  if  possible.  But  she  stood  face  to  face  with  him,  rooted 
to  the  ground,  a  heavy  languor  paralysing  her  limbs,  an  unearthly  chill  creeping 
tn  the  very  roots  of  her  hair. 

Her  hands  fell  powerless  at  her  sides.  She  could  only  stand,  white  and  im- 
movable, with  dilated  eyes,  staring  blankly  into  the  man's  face.  He  wore  a  blue 
coat,  and  a  three-cornered  hat,  thrown  jauntily  upon  his  head,  so  as  in  nowise  to 
overshadow  his  face. 

She  wa*  alone,  half  a  mile  from  a  human  habitation  or  human  help — alone  at 
the  stroke  of  midnight,  with  her  'husband's  ghost. 


og  DARRELL  MARKHAM  ;  OR 

There  was  no  illusion ;  no  shadowy  deception,  save  of  a  fervid  imagination. 
There,  line  for  line,  shade  for  shade,  stood  a  shadow  who  wore  the  outward  seem- 
ing of  George  Duke. 

She  reeled  away  from  him,  tottered  feebly  forward  for  a  few  faces,  and  then 
summoning  a  desperate  courage,  rushed  blindly  on  towards  the  quay,  her  gar- 
ments fluttering  in  the  sharp  winter  air.  She  reached  the  inn ;  a  servant  had 
waited  up  to  receive  her ;  the  sea-coal  fire  burned  brightly  in  the  wainscoted  little 
sitting-room  ;  all  within  was  cheerful  and  pleasant. 

Millicent  fell  into  the  girl's  arms  and  sobbed  aloud.  '  Don't  leave  me,'  she 
said-  ' don't  leave  me  alone  this  terrible  night.  I  have  often  heard  that  such 
things  were,  but  never  knew  before  how  truly  people  spoke  who  told  of  them. 
This°will  be  a  bad  voyage  for  the  ship  that  sails  to-night.  I  have  seen  my  hus- 
band's ghost.' 

CHAPTER  VI. — Sally  Pecker  Lifts  the  Curtain  or  the  Past. 

The  best  part  of  the  year  had  dragged  out  its  slow  monotonous  course  since 
that  moonlit  January  night  upon  which  Millicent  Duke  had  stood  face  to  face 
with  the  shadow  of  her  husband  upon  the  long  stone  pier  at  Marley  Water.  The 
story  of  Captain  George  Duke's  ghost  was  pretty  well  known  in  the  quiet  village 
of  Compton-on-the-Moor,  though  Millicent  had  only  told  it  under  the  seal  of 
secresy  to  honest  Sally  Pecker. 

We  are  but  mortal.  Mrs.  Sally  Pecker  had  tried  to  keep  this  solemn  secret, 
but  her  very  reticence  was  so  overstrained,  that  in  three  days  all  Compton  knew 
that  the  hostess  at  the  Black  Bear  had  something  wondeiful  on  her  mind  which 
she  l  could,  an'  if  she  woiild/  reveal  to  her  especial  friends  and  customers. 

Ao-ain,  though  Millicent  might  be  sole  proprietress  of  that  midnight  encounter 
at  Marley,  had  not  Samuel  Pecker  himself  a  prior  claim  upon  the  Captain's 
ghost  ?  Had  he  not  seen  and  conversed  with  the  apparition  ?  l  I  see  him  as 
plain,  Sarah,  as  I  see  the  oven  and  the  spit  as  I'm  sitting  before  at  thi^s  present 
time/  Samuel  protested.  It  was  but  natural,  then,  that,  little  by  little,  dark 
hints  of  the  mystery  oozed  out,  and  that  when  the  three  months  appointed  for  the 
voyage  of  .the  Vulture  expired,  and  Captain  Duke  did  not  return  to  Compton,  the 
honest  Cumbrians  began  to  look  solemnly  at  each  other  and  to  mutter  ominously 
that  they  had  never  looked  to  see  George  Duke  touch  British  ground  alive. 

But  Millicent  heard  none  of  these  whispers ;  shut  up  in  her  cottage,  she  read 
the  well-thumbed  romances,  sitting  in  the  high-backed  arm  chair,  with  the  white 
and  brown  spaniel  at  her  feet,  and  Darrell  Markham's  locket 'in  her  bosom.  The 
stout  servant  girl  went  out  in  the  evenings  now  and  then,  and  heard  the  Compton 
gossip  ;  but  if  eter  she  thought  of  repeating  it  to  ner  mistress,  she  felt  the  words 
die  away  upon  her  lips  as  she  looked  at  Millicent's  pale  face  and  mournful  blue 
eyes. 

<  Madam  has  trouble  enough/  she  thought,  '  without  hearing  their  talk.'  It 
seemed,  as  month  after  month  passed  away— as  the  long  grass  grew  deep  in  the 
meadow  round  Compton,  and  fell  in  rich  waves  of  dewy  green  under  the  mower's 
scythe — as  the  stackers  spread  their  smooth  straw  thatch  over  groups  of  noble 
hayricks  clustering  about  the  farm  houses — as  the  corn  began  to  change  color, 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE.  37 

and  yeljow  shades  came  slowly  creeping  up  the  waving  stalks  towards  the  heavy 
ears  of  wheat  and  rye — as  the  ponderous  wagons  staggered  homewards  under  their 
rich  burdens  of  golden  store — as  the  flat  stubborn  fields  were  laid  bare  to  the 
autumn  breezes,  and  the  ripening  blackberries  grew  black  in  the  hedges — as  the 
bright  foliage  in  the  woods  slowly  faded  out,  and  the  withered  leaves  rustled  to 
the  ground—as  the  early  frost  began  to  sparkle  upon  the  whitened  moors  in  the 
chilly  sunrise — as  the  pale  November  fog  came  stealing  over  the  wide  moorland, 
and  creeping  iuto  Compton  High  street  in  the  early  twilight — as  Time,  with  every 
changing  sign  with  which  he  marks  his  course  upon  the  face  of  nature,-  passed 
away,  and  still  no  tidings  of  Captain  George  Duke  and  the  good  ship  Vulture  were 
heard  in  Compton ; — it  seemed,  I  say,  as  if  the  honest  villagers  had  indeed  been 
strangely  uear  the  truth  when  they  said  that  the  Captain  would  never,  touch  British 
ground  again.  In  all  Compton,  Millicent  Duke  was,  perhaps,  the  only  person 
who  thought  differently.     • 

'  It  is  but  ten  mouths  that  he  has  been  away,'  she  said,  when  Mrs.  Sally  Pecker 
hinted  to  her  that  the  chances  seemed  to  be  against  the  Captain's  return,  and  that 
it  might  be  only  correct  were  she  to  think  of  putting  on  mourning,  '  it  is  not  ten 
months;  and  George  Duke  was  never  an  over  anxious  husband.  If  it  seemed 
pleasant  or  profitable  to  him  to  stay  away,  no  thought  of  me  would  bring  him  back 
any  the  sooner.  If  it  was  three  years,  Sally,  I  should  think  little  of  it,  and 
expect  any  day  to  see  him  walk  into  the  cottage.' 

'  Him  as  you  saw  upon  the  pier  at  Marley,  perhaps,  Miss  Milly,'  answered 
8ally,  solemnly,  '  but  not  Captain  Duke.  Such  things  as  }7Ou  and  Samuel  see  last 
winter  arn't  shown  to  folks  for  nothing,  and  it  seems  like  doubting  Providence 
after  that  to  doubt  that  the  Captain's  been  drowned.  I  dreamt  three  times  that 
1  see  my  first  husband,  Thomas  Masterson,  lying  dead  upon  a  bit  of  rock  in  the 
middle  of  a  stormy  sea ;  and  I  put  ou  widow's  weeds  after  the  third  time/ 

'  But  you  had  news  of  his  death,  Sally,  hadn't  you.' 

'  No  more  news  than  his  staying  away  seventeen  year  and  more,  Miss  Milly, 
and  if  that  ain't  news  enough  to  make  a  woman  a  widow,  I  don't  know  what  is ! 

Millicent  was  sitting  on  a  low  stool  at  Mrs.  Sally  Pecker's  feet  before  a  cheer- 
ful sea-coal  fire  in  the  snug  little  parlor  at  the  Black  Bear.  It  was  a  comfort  to 
the  poor  girl  to  spend  these  long  wintry  evenings  with  honest  Sally,  listening  to 
the  wind  roaring  in  the  wide  chimneys,  counting  the  drops  of  rain  beating  against 
the  window  panes,  and  talking  of  the  dear  old  times  that  were  past  and  gone. 

The  customers  at  the  Black  Bear  were  a  very  steady  set  of  people,  who  came 
and  went  at  the  same  hours,  and  ordered  the  same  things  from  year's  end  to 
year's  end  ;  so  when  Sally  had  her  dear  young  mistress  to  visit  her,  she  left  the 
feeble  Samuel  to  entertain  and  wait  upon  his  patrons,  and,  turning  her  back  to 
business  and  the  bar,  took  gentle  Millicent's  pale  golden  head  upon  her  knee,  and 
lovingly*  smoothing  the  soft  curls,  comforted  the  forlorn  heart  with  that  to  Ik  of  the 
Jays  gone  by  that  was  so  mournfully  sweet  to  Mistress  George  Duke. 

Long  as  Sarah  Masterson  had  been  housekeeper  at  the  Hall.  Millicent  never 
remembered  having  heard  any  mention  whatever  of  the  name  of  Thomas  Master- 
son. mariner;  but  on  this  dark  November  evening  some  chance  word  brought 
Sarth's  first  husband  into  Mrs.  Duke's  thoughts,  and  she  felt  a  strange  curiosity 
about  the  dead  seaman. 

•  Was  he  good  to  you,  Sally[?'  she  asked,  4  and  did  you  love  him  ':' 


33 


DARRELL  MARKHAM ;  OR 


Sally  looked  gloomily  at  the  fire  for  some  moments  before  she  answered  this 
question. 

'It's  a  long  while  ago,  Miss  Millicent,'  she  said,  'and  it  seems  hard,  looking 
back  so  far,  to  remember  what  was  and  what  wasn't  I  was  but  a  poor  stupid 
lass  when  Masterson  first  came  to  Compton.  I  did  love  him,  Miss  Milly,  and 
he  warn't  good  to  me.' 

'  Not  good  to  you,  Sally}?' 

'  He  was  bitter,  bad  and  cruel  to  me  !\  answered  Sally  in  a  suppressed  voice, 
her  eyes  kindling  at  the  angry  recollection.  '  I  had  a  bit  of  money  left  me  by 
poor  old  grandfather,  and  it  was  that  he  wanted,  and  not  me.  I  had  a  few  bits 
of  silver  spoons  and  a  teapot  as  had  been  grandmother's,  and  he  cared  more  for 
them  than  me.  I  had  my  savings  that  I  had  been  keeping  ever  since  I  first  went 
to  service,  and  he  wrung  every  guinea'  from  me,  and  every  crownpiece,  and  shil- 
ling, and  copper,  till  he  left  me  without  clothes  to  caver  me,  and  almost  without 
bread  to  eat.  You  see  me  here,  Miss,  with  Samuel,  having  my  own  way  in  eve- 
rything, and  managing  of  him  mild  like.  You  wouldn't  believe  I  was  the  same 
woman,  if  you'd  seen  me  with  Masterson.  I  was  frightened  of  him,  Miss 
Millicent ! — I  was  frightened  of  him  !' 

The  very  recollection  of  her  dead  husband  seemed  to  strike  terror  to  the  stout 
heart  of  the  ponderous  Sally  Pecker.  She  cowered  down  over  the  fire,  clinging 
to  Millicent  as  if  she  would  have  turned  for  protection  even  to  that  slender  reed, 
and,  glancing  across  her  shoulder,  looked  towards  the  window  behind  her,  as  if 
she  expected  to  see  it  shaken  by  some  more  terrible  touch  than  that  of  the  wind 
and  rain. 

'  Sally,  Sally !'  exclaimed  Millicent  soothingly,  for  it  was  now  her  turn  to  be 
the  comforter,  '  why  were  you  frightened  of  him  V 

'  Because  he  was I  haven't  told  you  all  the  truth  about  him  yet,  Miss 

Millicent,  and  I've  never  told  it  to  mortal  ears,  and  never  will  except  to  yours. 
I've  called  him  a  mariner,  Miss,  for  this  seventeen  years  and  past.  It's  not  a 
hard  word,  and  it  means  almost  anything  in  the  way  of  sailoring;  but  he  was  ouc 
of  the  most  desperate  smugglers  as  ever  robbed  king  and  country,  and  I  found  it 
out  three  months  after  we  was  married.' 

It  was  some  little  time  before  Millicent  uttered  a  word  in  reply  to  this.  She 
gat  with  her  slender  hands  clasped  round  one  of  Sarah's  plump  rists,  her  large 
blue  eyes  fixed  upon  the  red  blaze  with  the  thoughtfully  earnest  gaze  peculiar  to 
her. 

'  My  poor,  poor  Sally  !  it  was  very  hard  for  you,'  she  said  at  last.  '  Compton 
seems  so  far  away  from  the  world,  and  we  so  ignorant,  that  it  was  little  wonder 
you  were  deceived.     Others  have  been  deceived,  Sally,  since  then.'  ;   • 

Mrs  Sarah  Pecker  nodded  her  head.     She  had  heard  the  dark  reports  current- 
among  the  Compton  people  about  the  good  ship  Vulture  and  her  captain.     She 
only  sighed  thoughtfully,  as  she  murmured — 

'  Ah,  Miss  Milly,  if  that  had  been  the  worst,  I  might  have  borne  it  uncom- 
plainingly, for  I  was  milder  tempered  those  days  than  I  am  now.  We  didn't 
live  at  Compton,  but  in  a  little  village  along  the  coast,  as  was  handy  for  my  hus- 
band's unlawful  trade.  We'd  lived  together  five  years,  me  never  daring  to  com- 
plain of  any  hardships,  nor  of  the  wickedness  of  cheating  the  king  as  Thomas 
Masterson  cheated  him  every  week  of  his  life;    I  seemed  not  much  to  care  what 


'  THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE.  39 

he  did,  or  where  he  went,  for  I  had  1113*  comfort  and  my  happiness.  I  had»niy 
boy,  who  was  born  a  year  after  we  left  Compton — my  beautiful  boy,  with  the 
great  black  eyes  and  the  curly  hail- — and  I  was  as  happy  as  the  day  was  long 
while  all  went  well  with  him.  But  the  bitterest  was  to  come,  Miss  Milly,  for 
when  the  child  came  to  be  four  years  old,  I  saw  that  the  father  was  teaching  him 
his  own  bad  ways,  and  putting  his  own  wicked  words  into  the  baby's  innocent 
mouth,  and  bringing  him  up  in  a  fair  way  to  be  a  curse  to  himself  and  them  that 
loved  him.  I  couldn't  bear  this ;  I  could  have  borne  to  have  been  trampled  on 
myself,  but  I  couldn't  bear  to  see  my  child  going  to  ruin  before  his  mother's 
eyes.  I  told  Masterson  so  one  night.  I  was  violent,  perhaps,  for  I  was  almost 
wild  like,  and  my  passion  carried  me  away.  I  told  him  that  I  meant  to  take 
the  child  away  with  me  out  of  his  reach,  and  go  into  service  and  work  for  himj 
and  bring  him  up  to  be  an  honest  man.  He  laughed  and  said  I  was  welcome  to 
the  brat,  and  I  took  him  at  his  word,  thinking  he  didn't  care.  I  went  to  sleep 
with  the  boy  in  my  arms, •meaning  to  set  out  early  the  next  morning,  and  come 
back  to  Compton,  where  I  had  friends.  Oh,  Miss  Millicent,  may  you  never 
know  such  bitter  trials  !  When  I  woke  up  my  child  was  gone,  and  I  never  saw 
either  Masterson  or  my  boy  again.' 

'  You  waited  in  the  village  where  he  left  you  ?'  asked  Millicent. 

'  For  a  year  aud  over,  Miss  Milly,  hopin'  that  he'd  come  back,  bringing  the 
boy  with  him;  but  no  tidings  ever  came  of  him.  At  the  end 'of  that  time  I  left 
word  with  the  neighbors  to  say  I  was  gone  back  to  Compton,  aud  I  came  straight 
here,  when  your  father  took  me  as  his  housekeeper,  and  where  I  lived  happy 
for  many  years ;  but  I've  never  forgotten  my  boy.  Miss  Millicent,  atad  it's  very 
seldom  that  I  go  to  sleep  without  seeing  his  beautiful  eyes  shining  upon  me  iu 
my  dreams.' 

'  Oh,  Sally,  Sally,  how  bitterly  you  have  suffered,  and  what  reason  you  have  to 
hate  this  man's  memory  !' 

'  We've  no  call  to  talk  harsh  of  them  that's  dead  and  gone,  Miss  Milly.  Let 
'em  rest  with  their  sins  upon  their  own  heads,  and  let  us  look  to  happier  times. 
When  Thomas  Masterson  went  away,  and  left  me  without  a  sixpence  to  buy  a 
loaf  of  bread,  I  never  thought  to  be  mistress  of  the  Black  Bear.  Pecker  has 
been  a  good  friend  to  me,  .Miss,  and  a  true,  and  I  bless  the  Providence  that  sent 
him  courting  to  the  Hall — sitting'  of  evenings *iu  the  housekeeper's  room,  never 
saying  much,  but  always  looking  melancholic  like,  and  dropping  sudden  on  his 
knees  one  night,  spying,  "  Sarah,  will  you  have  me  V  ' 

Mr.  Samuel  Pecker  here  venturing  to  put  his  head  into  the  room,  and  fur- 
thermore presuming  to  ask  some  question  connected  with  the  business  of  the  es- 
tablishment, was  answered  so  sharply  by  his  beloved  wife  that  he  retreated  iu 
confusion  without  obtaining  what  he  wanted. 

For  the  worthy  Sarah,  in  common  with  many  other  wives,  made  a  point  of 
scrupulously  concealing  from  her  weaker  helpmate  any  tender  or  grateful  feeling 
that  she  might  entertain  for  him;  being  possessed  with  an  ever-present  fear  that 
if  treated  with  ordinary  civility  he  might,  to  use  her  own  words,  try  to/get  the 
better  of  her. 

So  the  dreary  winter  time  set  in,  and,  except  for  thi?  honest-hearted  Sally 
Pecker,  and  the  pale  curate's  busy  little  wife,  who  had  much  ado  to  keep  seven 
children  fed  and  clothed  upon  sixty  pounds  a  year,  Millicent  Puke  was  almost 


4Q  DARRELL  MARKHAM;  QR 

friendless.  She  was  so  gentle  and  retiring  that  she  had  never  made  many  ac- 
quaintances. In  the  happy  old  time  at  the  Hall,  Darrell  had  been  her  friend, 
confidant  and  playfellow ;  and  she  had  neither  needed  nor  wished  for  any  other. 
So  now  she  shut  herself  up  in  her  little  cottage,  with  its  quaint  old  mirrors  and 
spindle-legged  table ;  its  grim  arm-chairs  of  dark  .mahogony,  and  heavy  oaken 
seats,  that  were  too  big  to  be  moved  by  her  feeble  arms ;  she  shut  herself  up  in 
her  prim,  orderly  little  abode,  and  the  Compton  people  seldom  saw  her  except  at 
Church,  or  on  her  way  to  the  Black  Bear. 

Millicent  heard  nothing  of  Darrell  directly,  but  he  wrote  about  once  in  six 
weeks  to  Mrs.  Sarah  Pecker,  who  was  sorely  put  to  it  to  scrawl  a  few  words  in 
reply,  telling  him  how  Miss  Millicent  was  but  weakly,  and  how  Captain  Duke  was 
still  away  with  his  ship,  the  Vulture.  Through  Sally,  therefore,  Mrs.  Duke  had 
tidings  of  this  dear  cousin.  He  had  found  friends  in  London,  and  had  been  taken 
as  secretary  to  a  noble  Scottish  lord,  suspected  of  no  very  strong  attachment  to  the 
Hanoverian  cause ;  but  it  was  not  so  long  since  other,  noble  Scottish  lords  had 
paid  the  price  of  their  loyalty,  and  there  were  ghastly  and  hideous  warnings  for 
those  who  went  under  Temple  Bar ;  so  whatever  was  done  for  the  exiled  family 
was  done  in  secret — for  the  failures  of  the  past  had  made  the  bravest  men  cautious. 


CHAPTER  VII.— How  Darrell  Markham  Found  his  Horse. 

While  Millicent  sat  in  the  Jittle  oaken  parlor  at  the  Black  Bear,  with  her  head 
on  Sarah  Pecker's  knee,  and  her  melancholy  blue  eyes  fixed  upon  the  red  recesses 
of  the  hollow  fire,  Darrell  Markham  rode  westward  through  the  dim  November 

fog,  charged  with  letters  and  messages  from  his  patron,  Lord  C ,  to  some  noble 

Somersetshire  gentlemen,  whose  country  seats  lay  very  near  Bristol. 

On  the  first  night  of  his  journey,  Darrell  was  to  put  up  at  Reading.  It  was 
dark  when  he  entered  the  town,  and  rode  between  the  two  dim  rows  of  flickering 
oil  lamps  straight  to  the  door  of  the  inn  to  which  he  had  been  recommended.  The 
upper  windows  of  the  hostelry  were  brilliantly  illuminated,  and  he  could  hear  the 
jingling  of  glasses,  and  the  noise  of  loud  and  riotous  talk  within.  Though  dark 
it  was  but  early,  and  the  lower  jpwet  of  the  house  was  erowded  with  stalwart 
farmers,  who  had  ridden  over  to  the  Reading  market,  and  towns-people  congre- 
gated about  the  bar  to  discuss  the  day's  business.  • 

Darrell  flung  the  reins  to  the  ostler,  with  a  few  particular  directions  about  the 
treatment  of  his  horse 

'  I  Will  come  round  to  the  stable  after  I've  dined,'  Darrell  said,  ?  and  see  how 
the  animal  looks ;  for  he  has  a  hard  day's  work  before  him  to-morrow,  and  he 
must  start  in  good  condition.' 

The  ostler  touched 'his  hat,  and  led  the  horse  away.  It  was  a  tall  bony  grey, 
not  over  handsome  to  look  at,  but  strong  enough  to  make  light  of  the  stiffest  work. 

They  ushered  Darrell  up  the  broad  staircase,  and  into  a  long  corridor,  in,  which 
he  heard  the  same  loud  voices  that  had  attracted  his  attention  outside  the  inn. 

*  You  have  rather  a  riotous  party,'  he  said  to  the  landlord,  who  was  carrying  a 
pair  of  wax  lights,  and  leading  the  way  for  his  visitor. 

1  The  gentlemen  are  merry,  sir,'  answered  the  man.     '  They  have  been  a  long 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTCRE.  41 

time  over  their  wine.     Sir  Lovel  Mortimer  se<m:is  a  rare  one  to  keep  the  bottle 
moving  amongst  his  friends.' 

'  Sir  Lovel  Mortimer  ?' 

'  Yes,  sir.  A  rich  baronet  from  Devonshire,  travelling  to  London  with  some 
of  his  friends.' 

'  Sir  Lovel  Mortimer,'  said  Darrell,  thoughtfully ;  '  I  know  of  no  Devonshire- 
man  of  that  name.' 

'  He  seems  a  gentleman  used  to  great  luxury,'  answered  the  landlord  ;  '  he  has 
kept  every  servant  in  the  house  busy  waiting  upon  him  since  he  stopped  here  to 
dine.' 

Darrell  felt  very  little  interest  in  the  customs  of  this  Devonshire  baronet."  He 
ate  a  simple  dinner,  washed  down  with  half  a  bottle  of  claret,  and  then  taking  up 
;r  candle,  went  down  stairs  to  ask  the  way  to  the  stables. 

The  ostler  came  to  him  with  a  lantern,  and  leading  him  through  a  back  door 
and  across  a  yard,  ushered  him  into  a  roomy,  six-stalled  stable.  The  stalls  were 
all  full,  and  as  Darrell's  grey  horse  was  at  the  further  extremity  of  the  stable,  he 
had  to  pick  his  way  through  wet  straw  and  clover,  past  the  other  animals. 

'  Them  there  bay  horses  belongs  to  Sir  Lovel  Mortimer  and  his  friends,'  said 
the  man  ;  '  and  very  handsome  beasts  they  be.    Sir  Lovel  himself  looks  a  pictur', 
mounted  on  this  here  bay.' 
•  He  slapped  his  hand  upon  the  haunch  of  a  horse  as  he  spoke.     The  animal 
turned  as  he  did  so,  and  tossing  up  his  head,  looked  at  the  two  men. 

'A  tidy  bit  of  horse-flesh,  sir,'  said  the  ostler;  'a  hundred  guineas'  worth  in 
any  market,  I  should  say.' 

Darrell  nodded,  and  striding  up  to  the  animal's  head,  threw  one  strong  arm 
round  its  arched  neck,  and  catching  its  ear*  with  the  other  hand,  dragged  its  face 
to  a  level  with  his  own. 

'  I'd  have  you  be  careful,  sir,  how  you  handle  him,'  cried  the  ostler,  with  a 
tone  of  considerable  alarm ;  '  the  beast  has  a  temper  of  his  own ;  he  tried  to  bite 
one  of  our  boys  not  half  an  hour  ago.' 

'He  won't  bite  me/  said  Darrell,  quietly."  'Give  me  the  lantern  here,  will 
you.' 

'You'd  bettor  let  g>  of  his  head,  sir;  he's  a  stiffish  temper,'  remonstrated  the 
ostler,  drawing  back. 

'  Give  me  the  lantern,  man  ;  I  know  all  about  his  temper.' 

The  ostler  obeyed  very  unwillingly,  and  handed  Darrell  the  lantern. 

1 1  thought  so,'  said  the  young  man,  holding  the  glimmering  light  before  the 
horse's  face;  '  and  you  knew  your  old  master,  Dalmerino,  eh,  boy?' 

The  horse  whinnied  joyously,  and  snuffed  at  Darrell's  coat  sleeve. 

*  The  animal  seems  to  know  you,  sir,'  exclaimed  the  ostler. 

•  We  know  each  other  as  well  as  ever  brothers  did,'  said  Darrell,  stroking  the 
horse's  neck.  ■  'I  have  ridden  him  for  seven  years  and  more,  and  I  only  last  him 
b  twelvemonth  ajro.     Do  vou  know  anything  of  this  Sir  Lovel  Mortimer  who  owns 

•him."  ' 

•    'Not  over  much,  sir,  except  that  he's  a  fine  hiirh-spoken   gentleman.     He  al- 
our  house  when  he's  travelling  between  London  and  the  west.' 
•And  ia  that  often?'  asked  Darrell. 
'  Maybe  six  or  eight  times  in  a  year,'  answered  the  ostler. 


42  DARRELL  MARKHAM;  OR 

'The  gentleman  is  fonder  of  the  road  than  I  am,'  muttered  the  young  man 
•  Has  he  ever  ridden  this  horse  before  to-day  V 

The  ostler  hesitated,  and  scratched  his  head  thoughtfully. 

'I  see  a  many  bay  horses/  he  answered,  after  a  pause;  'I  can't  swear  to  this- 
here  animal ;  he  may  have  been  here  before ;  but  then,  lookin'  at  it  the  other 
-way,  he  mayn't.'  # 

'Anyhow,  you  don't  remember  him?'  said  Darrell. 

'  Not  to  swear  to,'  repeated  the  man. 

'  I  wouldn't  mind  giving  a  hundred  pounds  for  this  meeting  of  to-night,  Bal- 
merino,  old  friend,'  murmured  Darrell,  l  though  it  was  the  last  handful  of  guineas 
I  had  in  the.  world !' 

He  returned  to  the  house,  and  going  up  to  the  bar,  called  the  landlord  aside. 

'  I  must  speak  to  one  of  your  guests  up-stairs,  my  worthy  host,'  he  said.  ( Sir 
Lovel  Mortimer  must  answer  me  two  or  three  questions  before  I  leave  this  house.' . 

The  landlord  looked  alarmed  at  the  very  thought  of  an  intrusion  upon  his  im- 
portant customer.  .    . 

1  Sir  Lovel  is  not  one'to  see  over  much  company,'  he  said ;  '  but  if  you're  a 
friend  o£  his ' 

'  I  never  heard  his  name  till  to-night/  answered  Darrell ;  '  but  when  a  man 
rides  another  man's  horse,  he  ought  to  be  prepared  to  answer  a  few  questions.' 

'  Sir  Lovel  Mortiniei  riding  another  man's  horse !'  cried  the  landlord,  aghast. 
'  You  must  be  mistaken,  sir  !'  r 

'  I  have  just  left  a  horse  in  your  stable  that  I  could  swear  to  as  my  own  before 
any  court  in  England.' 

'  A  gentleman  has  often  been  mistaken  in  a  horse/  muttered  the  landlord. 

'  Not  after  he  has  ridden  him  seven*  years/  answered  Darrell.  '  Be  so  good  as 
to  take  my  name  to  Sir  Lovel,  and  tell  him  I  should  be  glad  of  five  minutes' 
conversation.' 

The  landlord  obeyed  very  reluctantly.  Sir  Lovel  was  tired  with  his  journey, 
and  would  take  it  ill  being  disturbed,  he  muttered ;  but  as  Darrell  insisted,  lie 
went  up-stairs  with  the  young  man's  message,  and  returned  presently  to  say  that 
Sir  Lovel  would  see  the  gentleman. 

Darrell  lost  no  time  in  following  the  landlord,  who, inhered  him  very  ceremo- 
niously into  Sir  Lovel's  apartment.  The  room  occupied  by  the  west  country  baro- 
net was  a  long  wainscoted  chamber,  lighted  by  wax  candies  in  sconces  between 
the  three  windows  and  the  panels  in  the  opposite  walls.  It  was  used  on  grand 
occasions  as  a  ballroom,  and  had  all  the  stiff,  old-fashioned  grandeur  of  a  State 
apartment.  A  pile  of  blading  logs  sent  the  red  flames  roaring  up  the  wide  chim- 
ney, and  in  an  easy  chair  before  the  open  hearth  lolled  an  effeminate-looking 
young  man,  in  a  brocade  dressing-gown,  silk  stockings,  with  embroidered  clocks, 
and  shoes  with  red  heels  and  glittering  diamond  buckles  that  emitted  purple  and 
rainbow  sparks  in  the  firelight.  He  wore  a  flaxen  wig,  curled  and  frizzed  to  such 
a  degree  that  it  stood  away  from  his  face,  round  which  it  formed  a  pale  yellow  • 
frame,  contrasting  strongly  with  a  pair  of.  large,  restless,  black  eyes,  and  the  blue 
stubble  upon  his  slender  chin.  He  was  quite  alone,  and  in  spite  of  the  two  empty 
punch  bowls  and  the  regiment  of  bottles  upon  the  table  before  him,  he  seemed 
perfectly  sober. 

'  Sit  ye  down,  Mr.  Markham/  he  said,  waving  a  hand  as  small  as  a  woman's, 


'  THE-  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE.  43 

and  all  of  a  glitter  with  diamonds  and  emeralds,  '  sit  yo  down  ;  and  hark  ye,  Mr. 
William  Byers,  bring  me  auother  bottle  of  claret,  and  see  that  it's  a  little  better 
than  the  last.  My  two  worthy  friends  have  staggered  off  to  bed,  Mr.  Markham, 
a  little  the  worse  for  this  evening's  bout,  but  you  see  I've  contrived  to  keep  my 
brains  pretty  clear  of  cobwebs,  and  am  your  humble  servant  to  command.' 

Sir  Lovel  Mortimer  was1  as  effeminate  in  manners  as  in  person.  He  had  a  clear 
treble  voice,  and  spoke  iii  the  languid,  drawling  manner  of  the  maccaronis  of 
llanelagh  aud  the  Parks.  . 

Darrell  Markham  told  the  story  of  his  recognizing  his  horse  iu  the  stable  below, 
in  a  few  words. 

'  And  you  lost  him V  drawled  Sir  Lovel. 

'  A  year  ago  last  month.' 

'  Strange  !'  lisped  the  baronet.     '  I  gave  fifty  guineas  for  the  animal  at  a  fair  at  „ 
Barnstable  last  July.' 

'  Do  you  remember  the  person  of  whom  you  bought  him  ?' 

'  Yes,  perfectly.  He  was  an  elderly  mau,  with  white  hair ;  he  represented 
himself  as  a  farmer  from  Dorsetshire.' 

'  Then  the  trace  of  the  villran  who  robbed  me  is  lost,'  said  Darrell.  '  I  would 
have  given  much  had  you  got  him  straight  from  the  scoundrel  who  robbed  me  of 
my  purse  and  watch,  and  some  documents  of  value  to  others  besides  myself,  upon 
Compton  Moor,  last  October.' 

Sir  Lovel  Mortimer's  restless  black  eyes  flashed  with  an  eager  light  as  he  looked 
at  the  speaker.  Those  ever  restless  eyes  were  strangely  at  variance  with  the 
young  bafonet's  drawling  treble  voice  and  languid  manner.  It  was  as  if  tht  ef- 
feminate languor  was  only  an  assumption,  the  falsehood  of  which  the  eager,  burn- 
ing eyes  betrayed  in  spite  of  himself. 

'  Will  you  tell  me  the  story  of  your  encounter  with  the  knight  of  the  road  V 
he  asked. 

Darrell  gave  him  a  brief  description  of  his  meeting  with  the  highwayman, 
omitting  all  that  bore  any  relation  to  either  Millicent  or  Captaiu  George  Duke. 

'  I  scarcely  expect  you  to  believe  all  this/  said  Darrell,  iu  conclusion,  '  or  to 
acknowledge  my  claims  upon  the  horse ;  but  if  you  like  to  come  down  to  the 
stable,  you  will  see  at  least  that  the  faithful  creature  remembers  his  old  master.' 

'  I  have  no  need  to  go  to  the  stable  for  confirmation  of  your  words,  Mr.  Mark- 
ham,'  answered  the  young  baronet;  '  I  would  be  the  last  to  doubt  the  truth  of  a 
gentleman's  assertion.' 

The  landlord  brought  the  claret  and  a  couple  of  clean  glasses,  while  the  two 
men  were  talking,  and  Sir  Lovel  pledged  his  visitor  iu  a  bumper. 

The  west  country  baronet  seemed  delighted  to  secure  Darrell's  society.  He 
talked  of  the  metropolis,  boasted  of  his  conquests  among  the  fair  sex,  aud  slipping 
from  one  subject  to  auother,  began  presently  to  speak  of  politics.  Darrell,  who 
had  listened  patiently  to  his  silly  prattle,  grew  grave  immediately. 

'  You  seem  to  take  but  little  interest  in  either  party,  Mr.  Markham,'  Sir  Lovel 
said  at  last,  offer  vainly  trying  to  discover  the  bent  of  Darrell's  mind. 

'Not  over  much,'  answered  the  young  man.  'I  was  bred  in  the  country, 
where  all  we  knew  of  politics  was  to  set  the  bells  ringing  on  the  kiu_:"s  birthday, 
and  pray  for  his  majesty  iu  church  on  Sundays  and  holid:.; 

Sir  Lovel^shrngged  his  shoulders. 


44  DARRELL  MARKHAM  ;  OR 

4  What  say  yon  to  our  eating  a  broiled  capon  together  V  he  said.  '  My  friends 
■were  too  far  gone  to  bold  out  for  supper,  and  I  shall  be  very  glad  of  your  company 
over  a  bowl  of  punch/ 

Darrell  begged  to  be  excused.  He  had  to  be  on  the  road  early  the  next  morn- 
ing, he  said,  and  sadly  wanted  a  good  night's  rest.  The  baronet  would  take  no 
refusal ;  he  rang  the  bell,  summoned  Mr.  William  Byers,  the  landlord,  who  waited 
his  person  upon  his  important  guest,  and  ordered  the  capon  and  the  punch. 

'  We  can  come  to  a  friendly  understanding  about  the  horse  while  we  sup,  Mr. 
Markham,'  said  Sir  Lovel. 

Darrell  bowed.  Tbe  friendly  understanding  the  two  men  came  to  was,  that 
Markham  would  pay  the  baronet  twenty  guineas  and  give  him  the  grey  horse  in 
exchange  for  Balmerino — the  grey  being  worth  about  twenty  pounds,  and  Sir 
Lovel  being  willing  to  lose  ten  by  his  bargain.  So  Darrell  and  the  baronet  parted 
excellent  friends,  and  early  the  next  morning  Balmerino  was  brought  round  to 
the  front  door  of  the  inn  saddled  and  bridled  for  his  old  master. 

The  animal  was  in  splendid  condition,  and,  as  Darrell  spi-ang  into  the  saddle, 
neighed  proudly  as  he  recognised  the  light  hand  of  his  familiar  rider.  The  pave- 
ment of  the  Reading  street  clattered  under  his  hoofs,  and  in  ten  minutes  he  was 
out  upon  the  Bath  road  with  the  town  melting  into  the  distance  behind  him. 

Darrell  dined  at  Marlborough,  and  as  the  evening  closed  in  with  a  thick  white 
fog  that  shut  him  in  on  every  side,  he  found  himself  in  the  loneliest  part  of  the 
road  between  Marlborough  and  Bath.  He  had  a  well-filled  purse,  but  he  had  a 
good  pair  of  pistols,  and  felt  safely  armed  against  all  attack.  But,  for  the  second 
time  in  his  life,  he  had  reason  to  repent  of  his  rashness,  for  in  the  very  loneliest 
turn  of  the  road  he  heard  the  clattering  of  many  hoofs  close  behind  him,  and  by 
the  time  he  had  his  pistols  ready  he  was  surrounded  by  three  men,  one  of  whom 
coming  behind  him  threw  up  his  arm  as  he  was  about  to  fire  at  the  first  of  his 
assailants,  while  the  third  struck  the  same  swinging  blow  upon  his  head  that  had 
laid  him  prostrate  a  year  before  upon  the  moorland  road  between  Comp.ton  and 
Marley. 

When  Darrell  Markham  recovered  his  senses,  he  found  himself  lying  on  his 
back  in  a  shallow,  dry  ditch  ;  the  fog  had  cleared  away  and  the  stars  shone  with 
a  pale  and  chilly  glimmer  upon  the  winter  landscape;  the  young  man's  pockets 
had  been  rifled  and  his  pistols  taken  from  him ;  but  tied  to  the  hedge  above  him 
.'Stood  the  grey  horse  which  he  had  left  in  the  custody  of  the  west  country  baronet. 
•  Stupefied  with  the  blow,  and  with  every  bone  in  his  body  stiff  from  lying  for 
four  or  five  hours  in  the  cold  and  damp,  Darrell  was  just  able  to  get  into  the  sad- 
dle and  ride  about  a  mile  and  a  half  to  the  nearest  road-side  inn. 

The  country  people  who  kept  this  hostelry  were  almost  frightened  when  they 
saw  his  white  face  and  blood-stained  forehead  ;  but  any  story  of  outrage  upon  the 
high  road  found  ready  listeners  and  heartfelt  sympathy. 

The  landlord  stood  open-mouthed  as  Darrell  told  of  his  adventure  of  the  night 
before,  and  the  exchange  of  the  horses. 

'  Was  the  west  country  baronet  a  fine  ladyfied  little  chap,  with  black  eyes  and 
small  hands  V  he  asked  eagerly. 

1  Yes.' 

The  man  looked  triumphantly  round  at  the  bystanders.  <  I'm  blest  if  I  didn't 
think  so/  he  said.     'It's  Captain  Fanny.' 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE  45 

'  Captain  Fanny  !' 

1  Yes,  one  of  the  worst  scoundrels  in  all  the  West  of  England,  and  the  most 
difficult  to  catch.     He's  been  christened  Captaiu  Fanny  for  his   small   hands  and 
feet  and  his  lackadaisical  ways.' 
'  The  ostler  came  in  as  the  landlord  was  speaking. 

'  I  don't  know  whether  you  kdew  of  this,  sir,'  he  said,  handing  Darrell  a  slip 
of  paper ;  '  I  found  it  tied  to  the  horse's  bridle.' 

The  young  man  unfolded  the  paper  and  read  these  few  words  : — 

'  With  Sir  Level  Mortimer's  compliments  to  Mr.  Markham,  and  in  strict  accor- 
dance with  the  old  adage  which  says  that  exchange  is  no  robbery.' 


CHAPTER  Vfll.— How  a  Strange   Pedlar. worked  a  Great  Change 
in  the  Mind  and  Manners  of  Sally  Pecker. 

Darrell  Markham  waited  at  the  roadside  inn  till  the  tedious  post  of  those  days 

brought  him  a  packet  containing  money  from  his  friend  and  patron,  Lord  C . 

He  waa  vexed  and  humiliated  at  his  encounter  with  Captain  Fanny  ;  for  tlie  se- 
cond time  in  his  life  he  had  been  worsted,  and  for  the  second  time  he  found  him- 
self baulked  of  his  revenge.  The  constable  to  whom  he  told  the  story  of  the 
robbery  only  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  offered  to  tell  him  of  a  dozen  more  such 
adventures  which  had  occurred  within  the  last  week  or  two ;  so  Darrell  had  no- 
thing to  do  but  to  submit  quietly  to  the  loss  of  his  money  and  his  horse,  and  ride 
on  to  execute  his  commissions  in  Somersetshire.  .  Commissions  from  which  little 
good  ever  came,  as  the  reader  knows ;  for  it  seemed  as  if  that  kingly  house  on 
which  misfortune  had  so  long  set  her  seal  was  never  more  to  be  elevated  from  the 
degradation  to  which  it  had  sunk. 

All  this  time,  while  Darrell  turned  his  horse's  head  from  the  west  and  jour- 
neyed by  easy  stages  slowly  back  to  town  ;  while  Sally  Pecker  at  the  Black  Bear, 
and  all  Compton,  from  the  curate,  the  lawyer,  and  the  doctor,  to  the  lowliest  cot- 
tager in  the  village,  was  busy  with  preparations  for  the  approaching  Christmas  ; 
Millicent  Duke  waited  and  watched  day  after  day  for  the  return  of  her  husband. 
All  Compton  might  think  the  Captain  dead,  but  not  Millicent.  She  seemed  pos- 
sessed by  some  settled  conviction  that  all  the  storms  that  ever  rent  the  skies  or 
shook  the  ocean  would  never  cause  the  death  of  (jeorge  Duke.  She  watched  for 
his  coming  with  a  sick  dread  that  every  day  might  bring  him.  She  rose  in  the 
morning  with  the  thought  that  ere  the  early  winter's  night  drew  in,  he  would  be 
seated  by  the  hearth.  She  never  heard  a  latch  lifted,  without  trembling  lest  his 
hand  should  be  upon  it,  nor  listened  to  a  manly  foot-fall  in'  the  villagejhigh  street 
without  dreading  lest  she  should  recognize  his  familiar  step.  Hermeeting  with 
George  Duke's  shadow  upon  the  moonlit  pier  at  Marley  had  added  a  superstitious 
terror  to  her  old  dread  and  dislike  Of  her  husband.  She  thought  of  him  now  a.- 
a  being  possessed  of  unholy  privileges.  He  might  be  near  her,  but  unseen  aHd 
impalpable;  he  might  be  hiding  in  the  shadowy  corners  of  the  dark  wainscot,  U 
crouching  in  the  snow  outside  the  latticed  winuow.  He  might  be  a  spy  upon  her 
inmost  thoughts,  and  knowing  her  distrust  and  aversion,  might  stay  away  for  long 


40  DARRELL  MARKHAM  ;  OR 

year?,  only  to  torment  her  the  more  by  returning  when  she  had  forgotten  to  expect 
him,  and  had  even  learned  to  be  happy. 

You  see  there  is  much  to  be  allowed  for  her  lonely  life,  her  limited  education, 
and  the  shade  of  superstition  inseparable  from  a  poetic  temperament  whose  sole 
mental  aliment  had  been  such  novels  as  people  wrote  and -read  a  hundred  years' 
ago.  . 

She  never  heard  from  her  brother  Ringwood,  and  the  few  reports  of  him  that 
came  to  her  from  other  sources  only  told  of  riot  and  dissipation,  of  tavern  brawls 
and  midnight  squabbles  in  the  streets  above  Covent  Garden.  She  knew  that'  he 
was  wasting  his  substance  amongst  bad  -pieu,  but  she  never  once  thought  of  her 
own  interest  in  his  fortune,  or  of  the  chances  there  might  be  of  his  death  making 
her  mistress  of  the  stately  old  mansion  in  -vAuch  she  had  been  born. 

Sally  Pecker  was  in  the  full  flood-tide  of  her  Christmas  preparations.  Fat 
geese  dangled  from  the  hooks  in  the  larder,  with  their  long  necks  hanging  within 
within  a  little  distance  of  the  ground;  brave  turkeys  and  big  capons  hung  cheek 
by  jowl  with  the  weighty  sirloiu  of  beef  which  was  to  be  the  leading  feature  of 
the  Christmas'"  dinner.  Everywhere,  from  the  larder  to  the  scullery,  from  the 
cellars  to  the  sink,  there  were  the  tokens  of  plenty  and  the  abundant  promise  of 
good  cheer.  In  the  kitchen,  as  in  the  pantry,  Sally  was  the  presiding  deity. 
Betty,  the  cook-nfaid,  plucked  the  geese,  while  her  mistress  made  the  Christmas 
pie§  and  prepared  the  ingredients  for  the  pudding,  which  was  to  be  carried  into 
the  oak  parlour  on  the  ensuing  day,  garnished  with  holly  and  all  a-blaze  with 
burnt  brandy.  So  important  were  these  preparations,  that  as  late  as  nine  o'clock 
on  the  night  of  the  twenty-fourth  of  December,  found  the  maid  and  her  mistress 
hard  at  work  in  the  great  kitchen  at  the  Black  Bear.  This  kitchen  lay  at  the 
back  of  the  house,  and  was  divided  from  the  principal  rooms  and  the  entrance- 
hall  and  bar  by  a  long  passage,  which  kept  tire  clatter  of  plates  and  dishes,  the 
wnell  of  cooking,  and  all  the  other  tokens  of  preparation,  from  the  ears  and  noses 
of  Mrs.  Pecker's  customers,  who  knew  nothing  'of  the  dinner  they  had  ordered, 
until  they  saw  it  smoking  upon  the  table  before*  them. 

Sally  Pecker  and  her  maid  were  cpiite  alone  in  the  kitchen,  for  Samuel  was  busy 
with  his  duties  in  the  bar,  and  the  two  chambermaids  were  waiting  upon  the 
visitors  who  had  been  dropped  at  the  Bear  by  the  Carlisle  coach.  The  pleasant 
seasonable  frost,  in  which  all  Compton  had  rejoiced,  had  broken  up  with  that  per-  ■ 
tinacious  spirit  of  contradiction  with  which  a  hard  frost  generally  does  break  up 
just  before  Christmas,  and  a  drizzling  rain  fell  silently  without  the  closely-barred 
window-shutters. 

'I  never  see  such' weather/  said  Mrs.  Pecker,  slamming  the  back  door  with  an 
air  of  vexation  after  having  taken  a  survey  of  the  night ;  '  nothing  but  rain,  rain, 
rain,  coming  down  as  .straight  as  oneof  Samuel's  pencil  streaks  between  the  figures 
in  a  score.  v(jjhristmas  scarcely  seems  Christmas  in  such  weather  as  this.  We 
might  as-JKellThUve  ducks  and  green  peas  and  cherry  pie  to-morrow,  for  all  I  can 
see,  for  it's  so  close  and  muggy  that  I  can  scarcely  bear  a  good  tire'  i 

The  servants  a+*the  Black  Bear  knew  the  value  of  a  good  place  and  a  peaceful 
life -far  too  well  ever  to  contradict  their  mistress,  so  Betty,  the  cook-maid,  coin- 
cided immediately  with  Mrs.  Pecker,  and  said  that  it  certainly  was  hot — very 
much  in  the  same  spirit  as  that  of  the  Danish  courtier  who  was  so  eager  to  agree 
with  Prince  Hamlet. 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE.  47 

The  back  door  communicating  with  this  kitchen  at  the  Black  Bear  was  the 
entrance  generally  used  by  any  of  the  village  tradesmen  who  brought  Mrs. 
Pecker  their  goods,  as  well  as  by  tramps  and  beggars  and  such  idle  ne'er  do 
weels,  who  were  generally  sent  oft'  with  a  sharp  answer  from  Sarah  or  her  hand- 
maidens. 

On  this  Christmas  Eve  Mrs.  Pecker  was  expecting  a  parcel  of  groceries  from 
the  nearest  market-town,  which  were  to  be  brought  to  her  by  the  Conipton  carrier. 

1  Purvis  is  late,  Betty/  she  said,  as  the  clock  struck  nine,  'and  I  shall  want 
the  plums  for  my  next  batch  of  pics.  Drat  the  man  !  he's  gossiping  and  drinking 
at  every  house  he  calls  at,  Pll  be  bound.' 

Betty  murmured  something  about  Christmas,  and  taking  a  friendly  glass  like, 
tor  the  sake  of  the  season  ;  but  Mrs.  Pecker  cut  short  her  maid's  apology  for  the 
delinquent  carrier,  and  said  sharply, 

'  Christmas  or  no  Christmas,  folks  should  attend  to  the  business  they  live  by; 
and  as  for  friendly  glasses,  nufoof  compliment  to  the  season,  it's  a  rare  season  that 
isn't  a  good  season  for  drink  with  the  men,  for  every  wind  that  blows  is  an  excuse 
for  a  fresh  <Jass  witfl  them.  I  haven't  kept  the  head  inn  in  Compton  without 
finding  out  what  tliry  are.' 

It  seemed  as  if  the  carrier  had  been  aware  of* the  contumely  showered  on  his 
guilty  head,  for  at  this  very  moment  a  sharp  rap  at  the  window-shutters  arrested 
Mrs.  Pecker  in  the  full  torrent  of  her  scorn. 

'That's  Purvis,  Pll  lay  my  life/  she  exclaimed;  'the  fool  don't  know  the 
door  from  the  window,  because  it's  Christmas  time,  I  suppose.  Bun,  Betty,  and 
fetch  the  parcel.  Zbu'll  have  to  feel  in  my  pocket  for  the  sixpence,  for  I  can't 
fake  my  hands  out  of  the  Hour.' 

The  girl  hurried  to  open  the  door,  and  went  out  into  the  yard  ;  but  she  pre- 
sently returned  to  say  that  it  wasn't  Purvis,  but  a  pedlar  who  wanted  to  show 
Mrs.  Pecker  some  silks  and  laces.  , 

'  Silks  and  laces  !'  cried  Sally  ;  '  I  want  no  such  furbelows.     Tell  the  mau-to  go 
way  directly.      1  won't  have  any  such   vagabonds   prowling  about  the  premie 

The  girl  went  back  to  the  door,  and  remonstrated  with  the  man,  who  said  very 
little,  and  spoke  in  an  indistinct,  mumbling  voice,  that  scarcely  reached  Mrs. 
Pecker's  cars ;  but  whatever  he  did  say,  it  was  to  the  effect  that  he  would  not 
leave  the  place  uutil  he  bad  seen  the  mistress  of  the  Black  Bear. 

Betsy  came  hack  to  tell  Mrs.  Pecker  this. 

'"Won't  he?'  exclaimed  the  redoubtable  Sarah,  raising  her  voice  for  the  ed 
cation  of  the  pedlar;  'we'll  soon  see  about  that.     Tell  him  that  we're  nut  without 
Jtablea  in  Compton,  and  that   our   magistrates  are  pretty  hard  against   tramps 
and  vagabonds.' 

4  But  you  won't  be  hard  upon  me,  will  you,  Mrs.  PeckerT  said  the  man,  putting 
bis  head  into  the  kitchen. 

lie  was  a  stalwart,  broad-shouldered  fellow,  with  rather  a  Jewish  nose,  twink- 
ling black  eyes,  and  a  complexion  that  had  grown  almost  copper-coloured  by  ex- 
posure to  all  kinds  of  weather.  lie  wore  a  three-cornered  hat,  which  was  trimmed 
with'  famished  lace,  and  perched  carelessly  on  one  side  of  his  hcjid.  His  sleek 
hair  was  of  a  purplish  black  ;  and  he  wore  a  stiff  black  beard  upon  his  fat  double* 
chin,  Gold  tej-rings  twinkled  in  his  ears,  and  something  very  much  like  a  dia- 
mond glittered  amongst  the  dingy  lace  of  hiS  ragged  shirt-frill.     The  bronzed. 


48  DARR2LL  MARKHAM;  OR 

• 

dirty  hand  with  which  he  held  open  the  box  while  he  addressed  Mrs.  Pecker 
was  bedizened  by  rings,  which  might  have  been  either  copper,  or  rich  barbaric 
gold. 

'You'll  not  refuse  to  look  at  the  silks,  Mrs.  Sally/  he  said,  insinuatingly  ^  '  or 
to  give  a  poor  tired  chap  a  glass  of  something  good  on  this  merry  Christinas 
night.' 

Mrs.  Pecker  took  her  hands  out  of  the  flour ;  but  white  as  they  were,  they 
were  not  a  shade  whiter  than  her  usually  rubicund  face.  For  once  in  a  way  the 
landlady  of  the  Black  Bear  seemed  utterly  at  a  loss  for  a  sharp  answer. 

'  You  may  come  in/  she  gasped,  in  a  hoarse  whisper,  dropping  into  the  nearest 
chair.     '  Betty,  go  up-stairs,  girl.     I'll  just  hear  what  the  man  wants.' 

But  the  cook  was  by  no  means  inclined  to  lose  the  conversation  between  her 
mistress  and  the  pedlar,  whatever  it  might  be ;  and  accustomed  as  she  was  to  obey 
Mrs.  Sarah  Pecker,  for  once  in  a  way  she  ventured  to  hesitate. 

'If  it's  silk  or  laces,  ma'am/  she  said,  '  I  learnt  *:a  deal  about  'em  in  my  last 
place,  for  missus  was  always  buyin'  of  Jews  and  pedlars:. and  I  can  tell  you  if 
they're  worth  what  he  asks  for  'em.' 

'  You're  very  wise,  my  lassj  I  make  no  doubt/  answered  the  pedlar  ;  '  but  I 
daresay  your  mistress  can  choose  "a  silk  gown  for  herself,  without  the  help  of  your 
advice.     Get  out  of  the  kitchen,  do  you  hear,  girl?' 

'  Well,  I'm  sure/  exclaimed  Betty,  tossing  her  head,  and  not  stirring  from  her 
post  beside  Mrs.  Pecker. 

'  Do  you  hear,  girl  ?'  said  the  pedlar,  savagely — l  Go !' 

'  Not  for  your  tellin', '  answered  Betty  '  I  don't  like  leavin'  you  alone  with 
such  as  him,  ma'am/  she  said  to  her  mistress.  And  then  added  in  a  whisper  in- 
tended for  Sally's  ears  alone,  .'  There's  your  silver  watch  hauging  beside  the  chim- 
ney-piece, and  three  teaspoons  on  the  dresser.' 

'  Go,  Betty/  said  Mrs.  Pecker,  in  almost  the  same  hoarse  whisper  with  which 
she  had  spoken  before.  'Go,  girl,  I  shan't  be  above  ten  minutes  choosin'  a  gown, 
and  if  the  man  wants  to  speak  to  me,  he  must  have  leave  to  speak.' 

She  rose  with  an  effort  from  the  chair  into  which  she  had  fallen  when  the  ped- 
lar first  put  his  head  in  at  the  kitchen  door,  and  following  Betty  down  the  passage, 
saw  her  safely  into  the  hall,  and  locked  tfoe  door  which  separated  the  kitchen 
from  the  body  of- the  house. 

The  pedlar  was  standing  before  the  fire  smoking  a  pipe  when  she  returned  to 
him  after  doing  this.  He  had  taken  off  his  hat,  and  his  long  sleek  black  hair  fell 
in  greasy  curls  about  his  neck.  He  wore  a  claret-coloured  coat,  shabby  and 
weather-stained,  and  high  jack-boots,  which  smoked  as  he  warmed  his  wet  legs 
before  the  fire.  '  Have  you  made  all  safe?'  he  asked,  as  Mrs.  Pecker  re-entered 
the  kitchen. 

'Yes.' 

'  No  chance  of  listeners  creeping  about  ? — No  eyes  or  ears  at  key-holes  ?' 

'  No.' 

'  That's  comfortable.     Now  then,  Sarah  Pecker,  listen  to  me.' 

Whatever  the  jpedlar  had  to  say,  or  however  long  he  was  saying  it,  no  one  but 
the  mistress  of  the  Black  Bear  could  have  told.  Betty,  the  cookmaid;  with  her 
eye  and  ear  alternately  applied  to  the  keyhole  of  the  door  at  the  end  of  the  pas- 
sage, could  only  perceive,  by  the  aid*  of  the  first  organ,  the^faiut  glimmer  of  the 


OR  THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE  •  4Q 

firelight  in  the  kitchen  ;  while,  by  the  help  of  the  second,  strain  it  how  she  might, 
she  heard  nothing  but  the  gruff  murmur  of  the  pedlar's  voice. 

By-and-by  that  gruff  murmur  ceased  altogether,  and  Betty  began  to  think  that 
the  man  had  gone ;  but  still  Mrs.  Pecker  did  not  come  to  unlock  the  door  and  an- 
nounce the  departure  of  her  visitor. 

*     For  upwards  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour  Betty  listened,  growing  every  moment 
more  puzzled  by  this  strange  silence. 

'  The  mau  must  have  gone/  she  thought ;  '  and  missus  has  forgotten  to  call  me 
back  to  the  kitchen.'  • 

She  shook  and  rattled  at  the  lock  of  the  door.* 

'  Please  bring  the  key,  ma'am,'  she  cried  through  the  keyhole.  ( The  last 
batch  of  pies  will  be  spoiled  if  they're  not  turned !' 

Still  no  answer. 

k  Missus  !  missus !'  she  screamed  at  the  top  of  her  voice.  Not  a  sound  in  reply 
to  her  appeal. 

The  girl  still  stood  for  a  few  minutes,  with  her  heart  beating  loud  and  fast, 
wondering  what  this  ominous  silence  could  mean.  Then  a  sudden  terror  seized 
her — she  gave  one  sharp,  shrill  scream,  and  hurried  off  as  fast  as  her  legs  would 
i- any  her,  to  look  for  Mr.  Samuel  Pecker. 

Her  fear  was  that  this  strange  pedlar,  with  the  barbarous  rings  in  his  ears,  had 
spirited  away  the  ponderous  Sarah. 

Samuel  was  seated  iu  the  waiuscotted  parlor,  conversing  with  some  t»f  the 
Compton  tradesmen,  who  were  a  little  the  wurse  for  steaming  punch  and  the  in- 
fluence of  the  season. 

'  Master  !  master  !'  cried  the  girl,  thrusting  her  pale  face  in  at  the  door,  and 
troubling  the  festivity  by  her  sudden  and  alarming  appearance. 

'  What  is  it,  Betty  V  asked  Samuel.  Perhaps  he,  too,  had  taken  some  slight 
advantage  of  the  season,  and  made  himself  merry,  or,  let  us  rather  say,  a  shade 
less  dismal  thau  usual. 

'  Betty,  what  is  it  V  he  repeated,  drawing  himself  into  an  erect  position,  and 
looking  defiantly  at  the  girl,  as  much  as  to  say, 

4  Who  says  I  have  been  drinking?' 
'     The  co okmaid  stood  sileutly  staring  iu  at  the  door,  aud  breathing  hard. 

'  What  is  the  matter,  Betty  ?' 

'  Missus,  sir.'  * 

Something — surely  it  was  not  a  ray  of  joy — sonic  pale  flicker  of  that  feeble 
spirit  lamp,  which  the  parson  of  the  parish  told  Samuel  was  his  soul— illuminated 
the  innkeeper's  countenance  as  he  said  interrogatively, — 

'  Taken  bad,  Betty  V 

1  No.  sir ;  but  a  pedlar,  sir,  a 'strange  man,  dark  and  fierce  like,  as  asked  to  see 
missus,  and  was  told  to  go  about  his  business,  for  there  was  constables,  but 
wouldn't,  aud  offered  missus  silk  gowns,  and  she  turned  me  out  of  the  kitchen— 

likewise  locked  the  passage  door — which,  that's  an  hour  ago  and  more,  and • 

please,  sir.  I  think  he  must  hare  run  away  with  missus.' 

Another  ray,  scarcely  so  feeble  as  the  first,  lit  up  the  landlord's  face  as  Betty 
gasped  out  the  last  of  these  semi-detached  sentences. 

'  Your  miasm  is  rather  heavy,  Betty,'  he  murmured,  thoughtfully;  'was  the 
pedlar  a  big  man  ?' 
4 


50  DARRELL  MARKHAM  ;  OR 

1  He'd  have  made  two  of  you,  sir,'  answered  the  girl. 

<  So  he  might,  Betty;  but  two  of  me  wouldn't  be  much  agen  Sarah.' 

He  seemed  so  very  much  inclined  to  sit  down  and  discuss  the  matter  philosophi- 
cally, that  the  girl  almost  lost  patience  with  him.  •    * 
■  'The  passage  door  is  locked,  sir,  and  I  can't  burst  it  open;  hadn't" we  better 
take  a  lantern  and  go  round  to  the  kitchen  the  other  way  ?' 

Samuel  nodded. 

1  You're  right,  Betty,'  he  said ;  '  get  the  lantern  and  I'll  come  round  with  you. 
But  if  the  man  has  runaway  with  your  missus,  Betty,'  he  added,  argumentatively, 
1  there's  such  a  many  roads  and.  by-roads  round  Compton,  that  it  wouldn't  be  over 
much  good  going  after  them.' 

Betty  did  not  wait  to  consider  this  important  point,  but,  lighting  a  bit  of  candle 
in  an  old  horn  lantei'n,  led  the  way  into  the  yard. 

They  found  Purvis,  the  carrier,  standiug  at  the  back  door. 

'  I've  knocked  nigh  upon  sis  times,'  he  said,  '  and  can't  get  no  answer.' 

Betty  opened  the  door  and  ran  into  the  kitchen,  followed  by  Samuel  and  the 
carrier.  ■ 

The  pedlar  was  gone,  and  stretched  upon  the  hearth,  in  a  dead  swoon,  lay  Mrs. 
Sarah  Pecker. 

They  lifted  her  up,  and  dashed  vinegar  and  cold  water  over  her  face  and  head. 
There  were  some  feathers  lying  at  one  end  of  the  dresser,  that  Betty  had  plucked 
from  a  fat  goose  only  an  hour  or  two  before.  Some  of  these,  burned  exactly  under 
Sarah's'nostrils,  brought  her  round. 

'  I'll  lay  a  crown  piece,'  said  Betty,  '  that  the  watch  and  the  silver  spoons  are 
gone !'  ' 

Mrs.  Pecker  revived  very  slowly ;  but  when  at  last  she  did  open  her  eyes,  and 
saw  the  meek  Samuel  patiently  awaiting  her  recovery,  she  burst  into  a  sudden 
flood  of  tears,  and  flinging  her  stout  arms  about  his  neck,  indifferent  to  the 
presence  of  either  Betty  or  the  carrier,  cried  out  passionately — 

'  You've  been  a  good  husband  to  me,  Samuel  Pecker,  and  I  haven't  been  an 
indulgent  wife  to  you  ;  but  folks  are  punished  for  their  sins  in  this  world  as  well 
as  the  next,  and  I'll  try  and  make  you  more  comfortable  for  the  future )  for  I 
love  you,  my  dear — indeed  I  do  !' 

This  unwonted  show  of  emotion  almost  frightened  Samuel.  His  weak  blue 
eyes  opened  to  their  widest  extent  in  a  watery  stare,  as  he  looked  at  his  tearful 
wife. 

'  Sarah,'  he  said,  '  good  gracious,  don't !  I  don't  want  you  to  be  better  to 
me  ;  I'm  quite  happy  as  we  are.  You  may  be  a  little  sharp-spoken  Kke  now 
and  then,  but  I'm  used  to  it  now,  Sally,  and  I  should  feel  half  lost  with  a  wife 
that  didn't  contradict  me.' 

'  The  spoons  and  the  watch  is  gone,'  exclaimed  Betty,  who  had  been  inspecting 
the  premises ;  '  and  missus's  purse,  I  dare  say.  I  knew  that  pedlar  came  here 
with  a  bad  meaning.' 

1  He  did!  he  did!'  cried  Sarah  Pecker.     - 

It  was  ^thought  a  very  strange  thing  by  and  bye  in  the  village  of  Com^pton-on- 
the-Moor  that  the  mere  fact  of  having  been  robbed  of  ten  or  twelve  pounds  worth 
of  property  by  a  dishonest  pedlar  should  have  worked  a  reformation  in  the  temper 
and  manners  of  Mrs.  Sarah  Pecker  as  regarded  Samuel,  her  husband.     But  so  it 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE.        .        5J 

was,  nevertheless.  Christmas  passed  away.  Hard  frosts  succeeded  drizzling 
rains,  and  drizzling  rains  melted  hard  fronts.  Milder  breezes,  as  the  winter 
months  fell  back  into  tlm  past,  blew  across  Compton  Moor ;  spring  blossoms  burst 
feebly  forth  in  sheltered  nooks  beneath  the  black  hedges,  and  the  hedges  them- 
selves grew  green  in  the  fickle  April  weather,  and  still  Sarah  was  mild  of  speech 
and  pleasant  of  manner  to  her  astonished  husband. 

The  meek  landlord  of  the  Black  Bear  walked  about  as  one  in  a  strange  but 
delicious  dream.  He  had  the  key  of  his  cellars,  and  was  allowed  to  drink  such 
portions  of  his  own  liquors  as  ho  thought  fit ;  and  Samuel  did  not  abuse  the 
unwonted  privilege,  for  he  was  naturally  a  sober  man.  He  was  almost  master  in 
his  own  house.  Sometimes  this  new  state  of  things  seemed  well  nigh  too  much 
for  him.     Once  he  went  to  his  wife,  and  said  to  her,  imploringly — 

'  Sarah,  speak  sharp  to  me,  will  you,  plfcase,  for  I  feel  as  if  1  wasn't  quite* right 
in  my  head.' 


CHAPTEJR  IX. — 8jr  Lovel  Mortimer's  Drunken  Servant. 

1  have  said  that  Ringwood  Markham  was  a  milksop.  In  the  days  when  men's 
swords  were  ofteuer  out  of  the  scabbard  than  in,  the  young  squire  li^id  little 
chance  of  winning  much  respect  in  the  gaming-houses  and  taverns  that  he  loved 
to  frequent,  except  by  the  expenditure  of  those  golden  guineas  which  his  father 
had  hoarded  in  the  quiet,  economical  Life  the  Markham  fami^  led  at  Compton 
Hall  before  the  death  of  the  old  squire.  The  Hall  property,  which  was  by  no 
means  considerable,  was  so  tightly  tied  up  that  Ringwood  was  powerless  either  to 
sell  or  mortgage  it;  and  as  lie  saw  his  father's  savings  melting  away  he  felt  that 
the  time  was  not  far  distant  when  he  must  cither  go  back  to  Coinpton,  turn  coun- 
try gentleman  and  live,  upon  his  estate,  or  else  sink  to  the  position  of  a  penniless 
adventurer  hanging  about  the  purlieus  of  the  scenes  in  which  he  had  once  been 
all  in  all  to  half  a  dozen  shabby  toad-eaters,  and  the  obsequious  waiters  of  twenty 
different  taverus. 

Ringwood  Markham  had  never  been  in  love.  He  was  one  of  those  men  who, 
secure  from  the  tempest  of  passions  that  wreck  sterner  souls,  sink  in  some  pitiful 
quicksand  of  fully.  With  no  shade  of  profligacy  in  his  own  lymphatic  tempera- 
ment, he  was  led  by  his  vanity  to  ape  the  vices  of  the  most  profligate  amongst  his 
vicious  companions. ,  With  an  utter  distaste  to  drinking,  he  had  learned  to  be- 
come a  drunkard ;  without  any  real  passion  for  play,  he  had  half  ruined  himself 
at  the  gaming-table;  but,  do  what  he  would,  he  was  still  a  girlish  coxcomb,  and 
men  laughed  at  his  pretty  face,  his  silky-  golden  hair,  and  small  waist. 

Parrell  Markham  and  his  cousin  Ringwood  had  met  once  or  twice  in  London, 
but  the  oM  quarrel  was  still  rankling  in  the  heart  of  at  least  one  of  the  two  men; 
and  the  coolness  between  them  had-never  been  abated.  Da^cll  felt  a  contempt 
for  Millicent's  brother,  which  he  took  little  pains  to  conceal*,  and  it  was  only  Ring- 
wood's  terror  of  his  cousin  that  kept  him  from  showing  the  hatred  which  had 
been  engendered  on  the  day  of  the  one  brief  encounter  between  the  two  men. 
Darrell's  sphere  of  action  lay  far  away  from  the  taverns  and  coffee-houses  in  which 
the  young  squire  wrastcd  his  useless  life.  Too  brave  to  drown  his  regrets  in 
drunkenness  or  dissipation,  he  fought  the  battle  of  his  own  heart,  and  emerged  a 


52  DARRELL  MARK  ".AM  ;  OR 

conqueror,  from  the  strife.  '  True  to  the  memory  of  the  past,  he  was  true  also  to 
the  duties  of  the  present.  He  had  ambitious  dreams  that  consoled  him  in  those 
lonely  hours  in  which  his  cousin  Millicent's  mournful  face  stole  between  him  and 
the  pages  of  some  political  pamphlet.  He  had  high  hopes  for  a  future,  which 
might  be  brilliant  though  it  could  never  be  happy ;  perhaps  some  dim  foreshad- 
owing of  a  day  on  which  the  good  ship  Vulture  should  go  down  under  a  tattered 
and  crime-stained  flag,  and  he  and  Millicent  be  left  high  and  dry  upon  tlie  shore 
of  life. 

In  the  summer  succeeding  that  Christmas  upon  the  eve  of  which  the  foreign- 
looking  pedlar  had  robbed  Mrs.  Sally  Pecker  of  three  silver  spoons,  a  Tompiou 
watch,  seven  pounds  twelve  shillings  and  four-pence  in  money,  and  her  senses ; 
while  the  mowers  were  busy  about  Compton  in  the  warm  June  weather,  Ringwood 
Markham  was  occupying  a  shabby  lodging  in  the  neighborhood  of  Bedford-street, 
Covent  Garden.  The  young  squire's  purse  was  getting  hourly  lower ;  but  though 
he  had  been  obliged  to  leave  his  handsome  lodgings  and  dismiss  the  man  who  had 
served  him  as  valet  for  a  couple  of  years,  flattering  his  weaknesses,  wearing  his 
waistcoats,  and  appropriating  casual  handfuls  of  his  loose  silver ;  though  he  could 
no  longer  afford  to  spend  a  twenty-pound  note  upon  a*  tavern  supper,  or  shatter 
his  wine-glass  upon  the.  wall  behind  him  after  proposing  a  toast,  Ringwood  Mark- 
ham  still  contrived  to  wear  a  peach-blossom  coat,  with  glittering  silver  lace,  and 
to  show  his  elegant  person  and  pretty  girlish  face  at  his  favorite  haunts. 

He  spent  half  the  day  in  bed,  and  rose  an  hour  or  two  .after,  noon,  to  lounge  till 
dusk  in  a  dirty  sa£n  dressing-gown,  whicji  wds  variegated  as  much  with  wine 
stains  as  with  embroidered  flowers,  worked  by  Millicent's  patient  fingers  years  be- 
fore. His  dinner  was  brought  from  a  neighboring  tavern,  together  with  a  beer- 
stained  copy  of  the  Flying  Fost,  in  which  Ringwood  patiently  spelt  out  the  news, 
that  he  might  be  enabled  to  swagger  and  display  his  stale  information  to  the  com- 
panions of  the  evening.  It  was  as  he 'was  poring  over  this  v.ery  journal,  with  the 
June  sunlight  streaming  into  his  shabby  chamber,  where  the  fine  toilette  of  the 
evening  lay  side  by  side  with  the  relics  of  the  morning's  breakfast,  in  the  shape 
of  an  empty  chocolate  cup  and  the  remains  of  a  roll — it  was  during  Ringwood's 
dinner-hour  that  he  was  disturbed  by  the  slip-shod  servant-maid  of  the  lodging- 
house,  who  came  to  tell  him  that  a  gentleman,  one  calling  himself  Mr.  Darrell 
Markham,  was  below  and  wished  to  speak  with  him. 

Ringwood  glanced  instinctively  to  the  space  above  the  mantel-shelf,  upon  which 
there  was  a  great  display  of  pistols,  rapiers,  and  other  implements  of  warfare,  and 
then,  in  rather  a  nervous  tone  of  voice,  told  the  servant  girl  to  show  the  visitor  up 
stairs. 

DarreH's  rapid  step  was  heard  upon  the  landing  before  the  girl  could  leave  the 
'  room. 

'  It  is  no  time  for  ceremony,  Ringwood,'  he  said,  dashing  into  the  apartment, 
'  nor  for  any  old  feeing  of  ill-will — I  have  come  to  talk  to  yoA  about  your  sister.' 

<  About  Millicent  ?"• 

Mr.  Ringwood  Markham's  countenance  evinced  a  powerful  sense  of  relief  as 
Darrell  declared  the  object  of  his  visit. 

1  Yes,  about  Mrs.  George  Duke.  If  your  sister  was  dead  and  gone,  Ringwood 
Markham,  I  doubt  if  you  would  have  heard  the  news.'  , 

'  Millicent  was  always  a  poor  correspondent/  pleaded  the  squire,  who  spent  the 


the;captain  of  tee  vulture.  53 

best  part  of  a  day  in  scrawling  a  few  ill-shaped  characters  and  ill-^elt  words  over 
half  a  page  of  letter-paper  ;  '  but  what's  wrong  V 

1 1  scarce  know  if  that  which  has  happened  may  be  well  or  ill  for  my  poor  cou- 
sin/ answered  Darrell.  '  Captain  D#ke  has  been  away  a  year  and  a  half,  and  no 
word  of  tidings  of  either  him  or  his  ship  has  reached  Compton.' 

Mr.  Ringwood  Markham  opened  his  eves  and*brcathed  hard  by  way  of  express- 
ing strong  emotion.  He  was  so  essentially  selfish  tbat  he  was  a  bad  hypocrite. 
He  had  never  learned  to  affect  an  interest  in  other  people's  affairs. 

Darrell  Markham  was  walking  rapidly  up  and  down. the  room,  his  spurs  clatter- 
ing upon  the  worm-eaten  boards. 

•  I  only  got  the  news  to-day,'  he  replied,  '  in  a  letter  from  Sally  Pecker.  I  had 
not  heard  from  Compton  for  upwards  of  eight  months,  for  it  did  me  little  good  to 
have  the  old  place  brought  to  my  mind ;  and  to-day  I  got  this  letter  from  Sally, 
who  says  that  the  captain's  return  lias  long  ceased  to  be  looked  for  in  Compton, 
except  by  Millicent,  who  still  seems  to  expect  trim.' 

'  And  what  ao  you  think  of  all  this  ?'  asked  Ringwood. 

k  "What  do  I  think  ?  "Why,  that  Captain  George  Duke  and  his  [ship,  the  Vul- 
ture, have  met  the  fate  that  all  who  sail  under  false  colors  deserve.  I  know  those 
who  can  tell  of  a  vessel  with  the  word  Vulture  painted  on  her  figure-head,  that 
has  been  seen  off  the  coast  of  Morocco,  with  the  black  flag  flying  at  the  for§,  and 
a  crew  of  Africans  chained  down  in  the  hold.  I  know  of  those  who  can  tell  of  a 
wicked  traffic  between  the  Moorish  coast  and  the  West  India  Islands,  and  who 
speak  of  places  where  the  coming  of  George  Duke  is  more  dreaded  than  the  yel- 
low fever.  Good  Heavens  I  can  it  be  that  this  man  has  met  his  fate,  and  that 
Millicent  is  free  ?'        • 

1  Free  !' 

'  Yes,  free  to  marry  an  honest  man/  cried  Darrcl^his  face  flushing  crimson  with 
agitation. 

Ringwood  Markham  had  just  intellect  enough  to  be  spiteful.  He  remembered 
the  encounter  in  Fanner  Morrison's  kitchen,  and  said  maliciously, 

'  Millicent  will  never  be  free  till  she  hears  certain  news  of  her  husband's  death  ; 
if  George  Duke  is  such  a  roving  customer  as  you  make  him  out  to  be,  his  carcase 
may  rot  upon  some  foreign  shore  and  she  be  none  the  wiser.' 

*  He  has  been  away  a  year  and  a  half/  answered  Darrell;  'if  he  does  not  return 
within  seven  years  from  the  time  of  his  first  sailing,  Millicent  may  marry  again.' 

'  1 B  that  the  law  V 

1  As  I've  heard  it,  from  a  boy.  A  year  and  a  half  gone  ;  five  years  and  a  half 
to  wait.  My  little  Millicent,  my  poor  Millicent,  the  time  will  be  but  a  day,  an 
hour,  with  such  a  star  of  hope  to  beckon  me  on  to  the  end.' 

Darrell  sank  into  a  chair  against  the  open  window,  and  buried  his  face  in  his 
hands. 

Ringwood  Markham  could  not  resist  the  pleasure  of  inflicting  another  wound. 

'  I  should^  wonder  if  the  Cuptain  is  back  before  the  summer  is  out/  he  said  ; 
1  from  what  I  know  of  George  Duke,  I  think  him  no  likely  fellow  to  lose  his  life 
lightly,  either  on' sea  or  land.' 

Darrell  took  no  notice  of  this  speech.  I  doubt  much  if  he  even  heard  it.  His 
thoughts  had  floated  away  on  that  one  floodtide  of  hopeful  emotion  to  the  distant 
ocean  of  a  happy  future. 


54  ■  3ARRELL  MARKHAM;  OR 

# 

'  Hark  ye,  Ringwood,'  he  said  presently,  rising  and  walking  towards  the  door, 
1 1  did  not  cdftc  here  to  talk  lovers'  talk.  If  George  Duke  does  not  return,  Mil- 
licent  will  be  a  lonely  and  helpless  woman  for  nearly  six  years  to  come,  with, 
nothing  to  live  upon  but  the  interest  of  the^wo  thousand  pounds  the  squire  gave 
her  on  her  marriage.'  I  am  but  a  poor  man,  but  I  claim  a  cousin's  right  to  help 
her ;  but  I  must  keep  from  he^  all  knowledge  of  the  quarter  whence  that  help 
will  come.  You,  as  her  brother,  are  bound  to  protect  her.  See  that  she  wants 
for  no  comfort  that  can  cheer  her  lonely  life.' 

If  Ringwood  had  not  been  afraid  of  his  stalwart  cousin,  he  would  have  whim- 
pered out  some  petty  excuse  about  his  own  poverty ;  but  as  it  was,  he  said,  with 
rather  a  long  face, 

c  I  will  do  all  I  can,  Darrell.' 

.  Darrell  shook  hands  with  him  for  the  first  time  since  his  quarrel,  and  left  him 
to  his  toilette  and  his  evening's  dissipation 

Ringwood  dressed  himself  in  tl«e  peach-blossom  and  silver  suit,  and  cocked  his 
hat  jauntily  upon  his  flowing  locks.  In  an  age  when  periwigs  were  all  the  fashion, 
the  young  squire  prided  himself  much  upon  the  luxuriant  natural  curls  which 
clustered  about  his  high  but  narrow*  forehead.  This  particular  evening  he  was 
especially  careful  of  his  toilette,  for  he  had  appointed  to  meet  a  gay  party  at 
Rantlagh,  the  chief  of  which  was  to  be  a  certain  -west-country  baronet,  called  Sir 
Lovel  Mortimer,  and  better  known  in  two  or  three  taverns  of  rather  doubtful 
reputation  than  in  the  houses  of  the  aristocracy. 

The  west-country  baronet  outshone  Ringwood  Markham  both  in  the  elegance  of 
his  costume  and  the  languid  affectation  of  his  manners.  Titled  ladies  glanced 
approvingly  at  Sir  Lovel's  slim  figure  as  he  glided  thro  ugh  the  stately  contortions 
of  a  minuet,  and  many  a  bright  eye  responded  with  a  friendly  scintillation  to  the 
flaming  glances  of  the  young  baronet's  great,  restless  black  orbs.  This  extreme 
restlessness,  which  Darrell  liad  perceived  even  in  the  apartment  at  the  Reading 
inn,  was  of  course  a  great  deal  more  marked  in  a  crowded  assembly  such  as  that 
in  the  brilliant  dancing-room  at  Ranelagh. 

The  west-country  baronet  seemed  ubiquitous.  His  white  velvet  coat,' in  which 
frosted  rosebuds  glittered  in  silk  embroidery  and  tiny  foil-stones ;  his  diamond- 
hilted  court  sword  and  shoe  buckles ;  his  flaxen  periwig,  and  burning  black  eyes 
flashed  in  every  direction.  His  incessant  moving  from  place  to  place  rendered  it 
almost  impossible  for  any  but  the  most  acute  observer  to  detect  that  Sir  Lovel 
Mortimer  had  very  few  acquaintances  among  the  aristocratic  throng,  and  that  the 
only  persons  whom  he  addressed  familiarly  were  the  four  or  five  young  men  who 
had  accompanied  him,  Ringwood  Markham  included. 

The  young  squire  was  delighted  at  having  made  so  distinguished  an  acquain- 
tance. It  was  hard  for  the  village-bred  Cumbrian  to  detect  the  difference  between 
the  foil  stones  upon  Sir  Lovel's  embroidered  coat  and  the  diamonds  in  his  shoe- 
buckles  ;  how  impossible,  then,  for  him  to  discover  the  wide  varieties  of  tone  in 
the  west-country  baronet's  manners  and  those  of  the  earls  and  marquises  who 
lifted  their  eye-glasses  to  look  at  him.  Ringwood  followed  Sir  Lovel  with  a  wide- 
open-eyed  stare  of  respect  and  admiration,  and  when  the  place  began  to  grow  less 
crowded,  and  the  baronet  proposed  adjourning  to  his  lodgings  in  Cheyne  Walk, 
and  giving  the  party  a  broiled  bone  and  a  few  throws  of  the  dice,  the  squire  was 
the  first  to  assent  to  the  proposition.  % 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE.  "55 

The  young  men  walked  to  the  baronet's  house.  It  was  not  in  Cheyne  Walk, 
but  au  obscure  street  leading  away  from  the  river — a  street  in  which  the  houses 
were  small  and.  gloomy. 

Sir  Lovel  Mortimer  stopped  before  a  house,  the  windows  of  which  were  all 
dark,  and  knocked  softly  with  his  cane  upon  the  panel  of  the  door. 

lliugwood,  who  had  been  already  drinking  a  great  deal,  caught  hold  of  the 
brazen  knocker,  and  sounded  a  tremendous  peal. 

'  You  have  no  need  to  arouse  the  street,  Mr  Markham,'  said  the  baronet,  with 
some  vexation  ;  '  I  make  no  doubt  my  servant  is  on  the  watch  for  us. 

But  it  seemed  as  if  Sir  Lovel  was  mistaken,  for  the  young  men  waited  some 
time  before  the  door  was  opened  ;  and  when  at  last  the  bolts  were  undone,  and 
the  party  admitted  into  the  house,  they  found  themselves  in  darkness. 

'  Why,  how's  this,  you  lazy  hound  Y  cried  Sir  Lovel,  '  have  you  been  asleep?' 

'  Yesh,'  answered  a  thick,  unsteady  voice;  '  sh'pose — I've  been — 'shleep.' 

'  Why,  you're  drunk,  you  rascal,'  exclaimed  the  baronet ;  here,  fetch  a  light, 
will  you  ?' 

'  I'm  feshin'  a  light,'  the  voice  answered  ;  '  I'm  feeliu'  for  tind'  box.' 

A  scrambling  of  hands  upon  a  shelf,  the  dropping  ot  a  flint  and  steel,  and  the 
rattling  of  candlesticks,  succeeded  this'  assertion  ;  and  in  a  few  moments  a  light 
was  struck,  a  wax  candle  lighted,  and  the  speaker's  face  illuminated  by  a  feeble 
flicker. 

Sir  Lovel  Mortimer's  servant  was  drunk  ;  his  face  was  dirty  ;  his  wig  pushed 
over  his  eyebrows,  and  singed  by  the  candle  in  his  hand  ;  his  cravat  was  twisted 
awry,  and  hung  about  his  neck  like  a  halter ;  his  eyes  were  dim  and  watery  from 
the  effect  of  strong  liquors ;  and  it  was  with  difficulty  he  kept  himself  erect  by 
swayiug  slowly  to  and  fro  as  he  stood  staring  vacantly  at  his  master  and  his  mas- 
ter's guests.  • 

But  it  was  not  the  mere  drunkenness  of  the  man's  aspect  which  startled  Ring- 
wood  Markham. 

Sir  Lovel  Mortimer's  servant  was  Captain  George  Duke. 

About  four  o'clock  the  next  afternoon,  when  Riugwood  awoke  from  his  pro- 
longed drunken  skep,  the  first  thing  he  did  was  to  find  a  sheet  of  paper,  scrawl 
half  a  dozen  woU^P  upon  it,  fold  it,  and  direct  it  thus  : — 

'  Darrcll  Marnham,  Esq., 

At  the  Earl  of  C 's, 


St.  James's  Square.' 

The  few  words  Ringwood  scrawled  were  these  : — 

'  Dear  Darrell — George  Duke  is  not  ded.     I  saw  him  last  nite  at  a  hou9  in 
Chelsey.  Yours  to  comand,    .  R.  Markham.' 


CHAPTER  X.— The  House  at  Chelsea. 

Darrcll  Markham  had  left  Loudon  on  some  business  for  his  patron  when  Ring- 
wood's  messenger  delivered  the  brief  lines  telling  of  the  young  man's  encounter 
with  Captain  George  Duke. 


5§  DARRELL  MARKHAM  ;  OR 

It  was  a  week  before  Darrell  returned  to  St.  James'  square,  where  he  found  the 
young  squire's  letter  waiting  for  him.  One  rapid  glance  at  the  contents  of  Ring- 
wood's  ill-spelled  epistle  was  enough.  He  crumpled  the  letter  into  his  pocket, 
threw  his  hat  on  his  head,  and  without  a  moment's  delay  ran  straight  to  the 
squire's  lodging  by  Bedford  street. 

He  found  Ringwood  lying  in  bed,  spelling  out'  the  grease-stained  pages  of  one 
of  Mr.  Fielding's  novels.  Tavern  tankards  and  broken  glasses  were  Scattered  on 
the  table,  empty  bottles  lay  upon  the  ground,  and  the  bones  of  a  fowl  and  the  rem- 
nants of  a  loaf  of  bread  adorned  the  soiled  table-cloth.  Master  Ringwood  had 
entertained  a  couple  of  old  friends  to  supper  on  the  previous  evening. 

'  Ringwood  Markham,'  said  his  cousin,  holding  out  the  young  man's  missive, 
*  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  V 

'  Of  which  ?'  asked  the  squire,  with  a  stupid  stare.  The  fumes  of  the  wine 
and  ale  of , his  last  night's  orgy  had  not  quite  cleared  away  from  his  intellect, 
somewhat  obscure  at  the  best  of  times. 

'  Of  this  letter,  in  which,  as  I  think,  you  tell  nfe  the  biggest  lie  that  ever  one 
man  told  another.     George  Duke  in  England — George  Duke  at  Chelsea — what 
,  does  it  mean,  man  ?  speak  !' 

'Don't  you  be  in  a  hurry,'  said  Ringwood,  throwing  his  book  into  a  corner  of 
the  room,  propping  himself  up  upon  his  pillow,  and  looking  at  Darrell' with  a 
species  of  half-tipsy  gravity  most  ludicrous  to  behold ;  '  split  me  if  you  give  a 
fellow  time  to  collect  his  ideas.  As  to  big  lies,  you'd  better  be  careful  how  you 
use  such  expressions  to  a  man  of  my  reputation.  Ask  'em  round  in  Covent  Gar- 
den whether  I  didn't  offer  to  throw  a  spittoon  at  the  sea  captain  who  insulted  me ; 
and  would  have  done  it,  too,  if  the  bully  hadn't  knocked  me  down  first.  As  to 
my  letter,  I'm  prepared  to  stand  to  what  I  Said  in  it.  And  now  what  did  I  say 
in  it  V 
,     '  Look  at  it  in  your  own  hand,'  answered  Darrell,  giving  him  the  letter. 

Ringwood  spelt  out  his  own  epistle  as  carefully  as  if  it  had  been  some  peculiar 
and  mystic  communication  written  in  Greek  or  Hebrew ;  and  then  .returning  it  to 
his  cousin,  said,  with  a  toss  of  his  pale  golden  locks  that  flung  his  silk  night-cap. 
rakishly  askew  on  his  forehead  : 

'  As  to  that  letter,  Cousin  Darrell  Markham.  the  letter's  nothing.  What  do 
you  say  to  my  finding  George  Duke,  of  the  Vulture,  acting  as  servant  to  my  dis- 
tinguished friend  from  Devonshire,  Sir  Lovel  Mortimer,  Baronet  ?  What  do  you 
say  to  his  taking  Sir  Lovel's  orders,  like  any  low  knave  that  ever  was  ?  What  do 
you  say  to  his  being  in  so  drunken  a  state  as  to  be  sent  away  to  bed  with  a  sharp 
reprimand  from  his  master,  before  I  had  the  chance  to  speak  a  word  to  him  ?' 

'  What  do  I  say  to  this  V  cried  Darrell,  walking  up  and  down  the  room  in  his 
agitation,  'why,  that  it  can't  be  true.     It's  some  stupid  mistake  of  yours.' 

*  It  can't  be  true,  can't  it  ?  It's  some  stupid  mistake  of  mine,  is  it  ?  Upon 
my  word,  Mr.  Darrell  Markham,  you're  a  very  mannerly  person  to  come  into  a 
gentleman's  room  and  take  advantage  of  his  not  having  his  sword  at  his  side  to  tell 
him  he's  a  fool  and  a  liar.  I  tell  you  I  saw  George  Duke,  drunk,  and  acting  as 
servant  to  my  friend,  Sir  Lovel  Mortimer.' 

1  Did  George  Duke  recognize  you  ?'  asked  Darrell. 

1  Don't  I  tell  you  that  he  was  blind  drunk  !'  cried  the  young  squire,  very  much 
exasperated ;  '  how  should  he  recognize  me  when  he  could  scarcely  see  out  of  his 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE.  57 

eyes  for  drunkenness  ?  I  might  have  spoken  to  him,  hut  before  I  could  think 
whether  'twas  best  to  speak  or  not,  Sir  Lovel  had  given  him  a  kick  and  sent  him 
about  his  business  ;  .and  on  second  thoughts  I  reflected  that  it  would  be  no  great 
gain  to  expose  family  matters  to  the  Baronet  by  letting  him  know  that  my  brother- 
in-law  was  serving  him  as  a  lacquey.' 

'  But  did  you  make  no  inquiries  about  this  scoundrel  ?' 

'  I  did.  I  told  Sir  Lovel  I  had  a  fancy  that  I  knew  the  man's  face,  and  asked 
who  he  was.  The  baronet  knew  nothiug  of  him,  except  that  he  had  served  him 
for  a  twelve  month,  and  was  as  faithful  a  fellow  as  ever  breathed,  though  over-fond 
of  drink.'      . 

Darrell  did  not  make  any  reply  to  his  cousin's  speech  for  some  little  time,  but 
walked  up  and  down  the  room  absorbed  in  thought. 

'  Bingwood  Markham,'  he  said  at  last,  stopping  short  by  the  side  of  the  bed, 
'  there's  some  mystery  in  all  this  that  neither  you  nor  I  can  penetrate.  I  knoW 
this  Lovel  Mortimer,  the  west-country  baronet.' 

'Then  you  know  my  very  good  friend,' said  Bingwood.  with  a  consequential 
smirk. 

'I  know  one  of  the  most  audacious  highwaymen  that  ever  contrived  to  escape 
the  Old  Bailey'.' >        ' 

•  A  highwayman  !  The  baronet — the  mould  of  fi^ion  and  the  glass  of  form — 
as  lawless,  the  attorney,  said  of  him;  the  most  elegant  beau  that  ever  danced  at 
Ranelagh  ;  the  owner  of  one  of  the  finest  estates  in  Devonshire.  Have  a  care, 
Darrell,  how  you  speak  of  my  friends.' 

It  would  be  better  if  you  had  more  care  in  choosing  them,'  answered  Darrell, 
quietly.  '  My  poor,  foolish  Bingwood,  I  hope  you  have  not  been  letting  this  man 
clean  out  your  pockets  at  hazard.' 

1 1  have  lost  a  few  guineas  to  him  at  odd  times,'  muttered  Bingwood,  with  a  very 
long  face. 

The  young  squire  had  paid  dearly  enough  for  his  love  of  fashionable  company, 
and  he  had  borne  his  losses  without  a  murmur ;  but  to  find  that  he  had  been  made 
a  fool  of  all  the  while  was  a  bitter  blow  to  his  self-conceit;  still  more  bitter,  since 
Darrell,  of  all  others,  was  the  person  to  undeceive  him. 

'  You  mean  to  tell  me,  then,'  he  said,  ruefully,  '  that  this  Sir  Lovel ' 

1  Is  no  more  Sir  Lovel  than  you  are,'  answered  Darrell ;  '  that  all  the  fashion 
he  can  pretend  to  is  that  he  has  picked  up  on  the  king's  highway  ;  and  that  the 
only  estate  he  will  ever  be  master  of  in  Devonshire  or  elsewhere  will  be  enough 
stout  timber  to  build  him  a  gallows  when  his  course  comes  to  an  abrupt  termina- 
tion. He  is  known  to  the  knights  of  the  road  and  the  constables  by  the  nickname 
i  >f  Captain  Fanny,  and  there  is  little  doubt  the  house  in  Chelsea  to  which  he  took 
you  was  a  nest  of  highwaymen.' 

•  Ringwood  had  not  a  word  to  say ;  he  sat  with  his  night-cap  in  his  hand  and  one 
foot  out  of  bed,  staring  helplessly  at  his  cousin,  and  scratched  his  head  dubiously. 

'  But  that  is  not  all,'  continued  Darrell, '  there  is  some  mystery  in  the  connexion 
between  this  man  and  George  Duke.  They  might  prove  a  dozen  alibis,  and  they 
might  swear  me  out  of  countenance,'  but  prove  what  they  may,  and  swear  all  they 
may,  I  can  still  declare  that  George  Duke  was-the  man  who  robbed  mc  between 
'\mipton-on-the-Moor  and  Marley  Water — George  Duke  was  the  man  who  stole 
my  horse,  and  it  was  only  seven  months  back  that  I  found  that  very  horse,  stolen 


58  DARRELL  MARKHAM  ;  OR 

from  me  by  that  very  George  Duke,  in  the  custody  of  this  man,  your  friend,  the 
baronet,  alias  Captain  Fanny.  The  upshot  of  it  is,  that  while  we  have  thought 
George  Duke  was  away  upon  the  high  seas,  he  has  been  hiding  in  Loudon  and 
going  about  the  country  robbing  honest  men.  The  ship  Vulture  is  a  fiction,  and 
instead  of  being  a  merchant,  a  privateer,  a  pirate,  or  a  slaver,  George  Duke  is 
neither  more  nor  less  than  a  highwayman.' 

'  I  only  know  that  T  saw  him  one  night  last  week  at  a  house  in  Chelsea/  mut- 
tered Ringwood,  feebly.  His  weak  intellect  could  scarcely  keep  pace  with  Dar- 
rell's  excitement. 

'  Get  up  and  dress  yourself,  Ringwood,  while  I  run  to  the  nearest  magistrate ; 
this  fellow,  Captain  Fanny,  stole  my  horse  and  emptied  my  pockets  on  the  Bath 
road;  we'll  get  a  warrant  out,  take  a  couple  of  constables  with  us,  and  you  shall 
Jead  the  way  to  the  house  in  which  you  saw  George  Duke  ;  we'll  unearth  the 
scoundrels  and  find  a  clue  to  this  mystery  before  night.' 

'  Two  constables  is  not  much/  murmured  Ringwood,  doubtfully.  '  Sir  Lovel 
always  had  his  friends  about  him,  and  there  may  be  a  small  regiment  in  that  house.' 

Darrell  looked  at  his  cousin  with  undisguised  contempt. 

'  We  don't  want  you  to  face  the  gang/  he  said;  '  we  shall  only  trek  you  to  show 
us  the  way  and  point  out  the  house ;  you  can  run  away  and  hide  round  the  corner 
when  you've  done  that,  wIimP  I  go  in  with  the  constables/  '  m 

'As  to  pointing  out  the  house,'  ansvflered  the  crest-fallen  squire,  'I'll  give  my 
help  and  welcome  ;  but  a  man  may  be  as  brave  as  a  lion,  and  yet  not  have  any 
great  fancy  for  being  shot  from  behind  a  door.' 

'I'll  take  the  risks  of  any  stray  bullets,  man/  cried  Darrell,  laughing;  '  only 
get  up  and  dress  yourself  without  loss  of  time,  while  I  go  and  fetch  the  constables.' 

The  getting  of  a  warrant  was  rather  a  long  business,  and  sorely  tried  Darrell's 
patience.  -It  was  dusk  when  the  matter  was  accomplished,  and  the  young  man 
returned  to  Ringwood's  lodging  with  the  two  constables  and  the  official  document 
which*  was  to  secure  the  elegant  person  of  Captain  Fanny. 

Darrell  found  his  cousin  specially  equipped  for  the  expedition,  and  armed  to 
the  teeth  with  a  complicated  collection  of  pistols,  of-  the  power  to  manage  which 
he  was  as  innocent  as  a  baby.  A  formidable  naval  sword  swung  at  his  side,  and 
got  between  his  legs  at  every  turn,  while  the  muzzles  of  a  tremendous  pair  of 
horse-pistols  peeped  out  of  his  coat-pockets  in  such  a  manner  that  had  they  by 
any  chance  exploded,  their  charge  must  inevitably  have  been  lodged  in  the  elbows 
of  the  squire. 

Darrell  set  his  cousin's  warlike  toilette  a  little  in  order,  Ringwood  reluctantly 
consenting  to  be  left  with  ouly  one  pair  of  pistols  and  a  small  rapier,  in  exchange 
for  the  tremendous  cutlass  he  had  placed  so  much  faith  in. 

■  It  isn't  the  size  of  your  weapon,  but  whether  you're  able  to  use  it,  that  makes 
the  difference,  Ringwood,'  said  Darrell.  '  Come  along,  my  lad.  We  wont  leave* 
you  in  the  thick  of  the  fight,  depend  upon  it.'  * 

Ringwood  looked  anxiously  into  the  faces  of  the  two  constables,  as  if  to  see 
whether  there  were  any  symptoms  of  a  disposition  to  run  away  in  either  of  their 
stolid  countenances ;  and  being  apparently  satisfied  with  the  inspection,  consented 
to  step  into  a  hackney-coach  with  his  three  companions. 

"Ringwood  Markham  was  by  no  means  the  best  of  guides.  The  coachman  who 
drove  the  party  had  rather  a  bad  time  of  it.    First,  Ringwood  was  for  going  to 


THE  CAPTAtN  OF  THE  VULTURE.       '         5;. 

Chelsea  through  Tyburn  turnpike,  and  could  scarcely  be  persuaded  that  Ranelagh 
and  Cheyne  Walk  did  not  lie  somewhere  in  that  direction.  Then  the  young 
squire  harassed  and  persecuted  his  unfortunate  charioteer  by  suddenly  command- 
ing him  to  take  abrupt  turnings  to  the  left,  and  to  follow  intricate  windings  to  the 
right,  and  to  keep  scrupulously  out  of  the  high  road  that  would  have  taken  him 
straight  to  his  direction.  lie  grew  fidgety  the  moment  they  passed  Hyde  Park 
corner,  and  was  for  driving  direct  to  the  marshes  about  Westminster,  assuring 
his  companions  that  it  was  necessary  to  pass  the  abbey  in  order  to  get  to  Chelsea. 
for  he  had  passed  it  on  the  night  in  question  ;  and  at  last,  when  Darrcll  fairly  lost 
patience  with  him,  aud  bade  the  coachman  go  his  own  way  to  Cheyne  Walk  with- 
out further  waste  of  time,  Millicent's  brother  threw  himself  back  in  a  fit  of  the 
sulks,  declaring  that  they  had  made  a  fool  of  him  by  bringing  him  as  their  guide, 
and  then  forbidding  him  to  speak. 

Put  when  they  reached  Cheyne  Walk,  and  leaving  the  coach  against  Don 
Saltero's  tavern,  Set  out  on  foot  to  find  the  house  occupied  by  Captain  Faun}',* 
Ringwood  Markhain  was  of  very  little  more  use  than  before..  In  the  first  place, 
he  had  never  known  the  name  of  the  street;  in  the  second  place,  he  had  gone  I 
it  from  Ranelagh,  and  not  from  Loudon,  and  that  made  all  the  difference  in  the 
finding  of  it,  as  he  urged,  when  Darrcll- grew  impatient  at  his  stupidity;  and 
then  again,  he  had  been  with  a  merry  party  on  that  particular  night,  and  had 
therefore  taken  little  notice  of  the  way.  At  last  Darrell  hit  upon  the  plan  of 
leading  his  cousin  quietly  through  all  the  small  streets  at  the  back  of  Cheyne 
Walk,  in  hopes  by  that  means  of  arriving  at  the  desired  end.  Nor  was  he  disap- 
pointed; for,  after  twenty  false  alarms,  and  just  as  he  was  beginning  to  give  up 
the  matter  for  a  bad  job,  Ringwood  suddenly  came  to  a  dead  stop  before  the  door 
ot'  a  substantial-looking  house,  and  cried' triumphantly, 

'That's  the  knocker  !'    •  , 

But  the  young  squire  had  given  Darrell  and  the  constables  so  much  trouble 
for  the  last  hour  aud  a  half  by  stopping  every  now  and  then,  under  the  impres- 
sion that  he  recognized  a  door-sUp,  or  a  shutter,  a  lion's  head  in  stone  over  the 
door-way,  a  brass  beil-handle,  a  scraper,  a  peculiarly-shaped  paving-stone,  or  some 
other  object,  and  then,  after  a  few  moments  deliberation,  confessing  himself  to  be 
mistaken,  that,  in  spite -of  his  triumphant  tone,  his  cousin  felt  rather  doubtful 
about  the  matter. 

'You're  sure  it  is  the  house,  Ringwood  V  he  said. 

•'  Sure  !  Don't  I  tell  you  I  know  the  knocker?  A»n  I  likely  to  be  mistaken, 
do  you  think  V  asked  the  squire  indignantly,  quite  forgetting  that  he  had  con- 
fessed himself  mistaken  about  twenty  times  in  the  last  hour.  'Dou't  I  tell  you 
that  I  know   the   knocker.*    I    know  it   because    I    knocked   upon   it,  and   Sir 

Lov he the  Captain,  said  I  was  a  fool.     It's  a  dragou's-head  knocker  in 

brass.     I  remember  it  well/ 

1  A  dragon's  head  is  a  common  enough  pattern  for  a  knocker,'  said  Darrell, 
rather  hopelessly. 

'  Yes ;  but  all  dragon's  heads  are  not  beaten  flat  on  one  side,  as  this  one  is,  are 
they  V  cried  Ringwood.  'I  remember  taking  notice  how  the  brass  had  been 
battered  by  some  roysterer's  sword-hilt  or  loaded  cane.  I  tell  you  this  is  the 
house,  cousin;  and  if  you  want  to  see  George  Duke,  you'd  better  knock  at  the 


£0  DARRELL  MAEBHAM  ;  OR     - 

door.     As  I  was  a  friend  of  Sir  Lovel's,  I'd  rather  not  be  seen  in  the  matter ;  so 
I'll  just  step  round  the  corner.' 

With  which  expression  of  gentlemanly  feeling,  Mr.  Bingwood  Markham  re- 
tired, leaving  his  cousin  and  the  constables  upon  the  door-step.  *It  had  long  been 
dark,  and  'the  night  was  dull  and  moonless,  with  a  heavy  fog  rising  from  the  river. 

Markham  directed  the  two  men  to  conceal  themselves  behind  a  projecting  door- 
way a  few  paces  down  the  street,  while  he  knocked  and-  reconnoitered  the  place. 

His  summons  was  answered  by  a  servant  girl,  who  carried  a  candle  in  her 
hand,  and  who  told  him  that  the  west-country  baronet,  Sir  Lov,el  Mortimer,  had 
indeed  occupied  a  part  of  the  house,  with  his  servant,  and  two  or  three  of  his 
friends,  but  that  he  had  left  three  days  before,  and  the  lodgings  were  now  to  be 
let. 

Did  the  girl  know  where  Sir  Lovel  had  gone  V  Darrell  asked. 

She  believed  he  had  gone  back  to  Devonshire ;  but  she  would  ask  her  missus, 
if  the  gentleman  wished. 

But  the  gentleman  did  not  wish.  He  was  so  disappointed  at  the  result  of  his 
•expedition  that  he  scarcely  cared  even  to  make  an  attempt  at  putting  it  to  some 
trifling  use. 

But  as  he  was  turning  to  leave  the  door-step,  he  stopped  to  ask  the  girl  one 
more  question.  • 

4  This  servant  of  Sir  Lovell's,'  he  said,  '  what  sort  of  a  person  was  he  V 

'A  nasty,  grumpy,  disagreeable  creature,'  the  girl  answered.  * 

4  Did  you  know  his  name  V 

1  His  master  always  called  him  Jeremiah,  sir;  some  of  the  other  gentlemen 
called  him  sulky  Jeremiah,  because  he  was  always  grumbling  and  growling,  ex- 
cept when  he  was  tipsy.' 

'  Can  you  tell  me  what  he  was  [like  ?'  asked  Darrell.  '  Was  lie  a  good  looking 
fellow?' 

'  Oh,  as  for  that,'  answered  the  servant  girl,  'he  was  well  enough  to  look  at, 
but  too  surly  for  the  company  of  Recent  folks  '9 

Darrell  dropped  a  piece  of  silver  into  the  girl's  hand,  and  wished  her  good 
night.  The  constables  emerged  from  their  lurking-place  as  the  young  man  left 
the  door-step. 

'  Is  it  the  right  hous"e,  sir  ?'  asked  one  of  them. 

'  Yes,'  replied  Darrell ;  '  we've  found  the  nest  sure  enough,  but  the  birds  have 
flown.  We  must  even  make  the  best  of  it,  my  friends,  and  go  home,  for  our  war- 
rant is  but  waste-paper  to-night.' 

They  found  Ring-wood  Markham  waiting  patiently  enough  round  the  corner. 
He  chuckled  rather  maliciously  when  he  heard  of  his  cousin's  disappointment. 
'  You'll  believe  me  though,  anyhow/  he  said,  '  since  you  found  that  it  was  the 
right  house.' 

•  4  Yes,  the  right  house,'  answered  Darrell,  moodily;  '  but  there's  little  satisfac- 
tion in  that.  How  do  I  know  that  this  sulky  servant  of  the  highwayman's  was 
really  George  Duke,  and  that  you  were  not  deceived  by  some  fancied  likeness  V 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE-  Ql 


CHAPTER  XI.— After  Seyen^Years. 
•  • 

The  star  of  the  young  squire,  Ringwood  Markhaui,  shoDe  for  a  very  little 
louger  in  metropolitan  hemispheres.  His  purse  was  empty,  his  credit  exhausted, 
his  health  impaired,  his  spirits  gone,  and  himself  altogether  so  much  the  worse 
for  his  few  brief  years  of  London  life,  that  there  was  nothing  better  for  him  to  do 
than  go  quietly  back  to  Compton-on-the-Moor,  and  take  up  his  abode  at  the  Hall, 
with  au^old  woman  as  his  housekeeper,  aud  a  couple  of  farm  labourers  for  the  rest 
of  the  establishment.  This  old  woman  had  lived  at  Comptou  Hall  while  the 
shutters  were  closed  before  the  priucipal  windows,  the  heavy  bolts  fastened  upon 
the  chief  doors,  and  the  dust,  cobwebs,  and  shadows  brooding  about  the  portraits 
of  the  dead  aud  gone  Markhams,  whose  poor  painted  images  looked  out  with  wan 
and  ghastly  simpers  from  the  oaken  wainscoting.  The  old  housekeeper,  I  say, 
had  led  a  very  easy  life  in  the  dreary,  darkened  house,  while  Ringwood,  its  mas- 
ter, was  roystering  in  the  taverns  about  Covent  Harden;  and  she  was  by  no  means 
too  well  pleased  when,  in  the  dusk  of  a  misty  October  evening,  the  young  squire 
rode  quietly  up  the  deserted  avenue,  dismounted  from  his  horse  in  the  stable- 
yard,  walked  in  at  the  back  door  leading  into  the  servants'  regions,  aud  standing 
upon  the  broad  hearth  in  the  raftered  kitchen,  told  her  rather  sulkily  that  he  had 
come  to  live  there. 

His  doming  made  very  little  change,  however  ;  he  established  himself  in  the 
oak  parlour,  in  which  his  father  had  smoked  aud  drunk  and  sworn  himself  into 
his  coffin;  and  after  giving  strict  orders  that  only  the' shutters  of  those  rooms 
used  by  himself  should  be  opened,  he  determinedly  set  his  face  against  the  out- 
raged inhabitants  of  Comptou.  Now  these  simple  people,  not  being  aware  that 
Ringwood  Markham  had  spent  every  guinea  that  he  had  to  spend,  took  great  um- 
brage at  his.  ecctmtric  and  solitary  manner  of  living,  and  forthwith  solved  the 
enigma  by  setting  him  down  a  miser. 

When  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening  the  squire  crept  out  of  the  Hall  gates,  and 
strolling  up  to  honest  Sally  PeckerV  hospitable  mansion,  took  his  glass  of  punch 
in  the  best  parlour  of  the  inn,  the  Comptou  folks  gathered  round  him  and  paid 
their  homage  to  him  as  they  had  doue  to  his  father,  when  that  obstinate-tem- 
pered and  violent  old  gentleman  was  pleaded  to  hold  his  court  at  the  Bear.  R 
wood  felt  that  simple  as  the  retired  Cumbrian  villagers  were,  they  were  wiser 
than  the  Londoners  who  had  emptied  his  purse  for  him  while  they  laughed  in 
their  sleeves  at  his  dignity.  Yes,  on  the  whole,  he  was  certainly  -happier  at 
Comptou  than  in  his  Bed  ford -street  lodgings,  or  with  his  old  tavern  companions. 
-He  had  been  used  to  lead  a  very  narrow  life  at  the  best,  aud  the  dull  mouotouy 
of  this  new  existence  gave  him  no  pain. 

31illiceut  saw  very  little  of  her  brother.  He  would  sometimes  drop  into  the 
cottage  at  dusk  on  his  wjry  to  the  Black  Bear,  and  sit  with  her  for  a  few  minutes, 
talking  of  the  village,  or  the  farm,  or  some  otRer  of  the  every-day  matters  of 
life ;  but  his  sister's  simple  society«only  wearied  him,  aud  after  about  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  he  would  begin  to  yawn  drearily  behind  his  hand,  aud  then  after  kissing 
her  upon  the  forehead  as  he  bade  her  good  night,  he  would  stroll  asvay  to  Sarah 
Pecker's,  switching  his  light  riding-whip  as  he  walked,  and  pleased  by  the  sensa- 
tion his  embroidered  coat  created  among  the  village  urchins  and  the  idle  womeu 


(52  DAEEELL  MARKKAS;  OR 

?  » 

gossiping  at  their  doors.  It  had  been  agreed  between  Darreil  and  Ringwood  that 
Millicent  was  to  know  nothing  of  the  house  in  Chelsea  and  the  young  squire's 
mysterious  rencontre  with  George  Duke  or  his  shadow^ 

People  iu  Compton — who  knew  of  DarreH's  encounter  with  the  highwayman 
upon  the  moor,  and  of  Mrs.  Duke's  meeting  with  the  ghost  upon  Marley  Eier — 
.said  that  the  Captain  of  the  Vulture  had  his  double,  who  appeared  sometimes  to 
those  belonging  to  him,  and  whose  appearance  was  no  doubt  a  sign  of  trouble  and 
calamity  to  George  Duke.  Such  things  had  been  before,  they  whispered,  let  the 
parson  of  the  parish  say  what  he  would  •;  andthere  were  some  ghosts  that^ill  the 
Latin  that  worthy  gentleman  knew  would  never  lay  in  the  Red  Sea. 

The  quiet  years  rolled  slowly  by  unmarked  by  change,  either  at  the  Hall,  the 
Black  Bear,  or  the  little  cottage  in  which  Millicent  spent  her  tranquil  days.  No 
tidings  came  to  Comnton  of  the  Vulture  or  its  Captain,  and  though  Millicent  re- 
fused to  wear  a  widow's  dress,  the  feeling  slowly  crept  upon  her  that  she  was  in-' 
deed  a  widow,  and  that  the  tic  knotted  for  her  by  others,  and  so,  bitter  to  bear, 
was  broken  by  the  mighty  hand  of  death. 

For  the  first  year  or  two  after  Ringwopd  Markham's  return,  it  was  thought  that 
lie  would  most  likely  marry  and  take  his  place  iu  the  village  as  his-  father  had 
done  before  him.  The  Hall  estate  was  considered  to  be  a  very  comfortable  for- 
tune in  the  neighborhood  of  Compton-on-the-Moor,  and  many  a  rich  farmer's 
daughter  sported  her  finest  ribbons,  and  pinned  her  jauntily-trimmed  hat  eoquet- 
tishly  aslant  upon  her  roll  -of  glossy  hair,  in  hopes  of  charming  the  young  squire. 
But  Riugwood's  heart  was  a  fortress  by  no  means  easy  to  be  stormed  :  selfishness 
held  her  court  therein,  arfd  complete  indifference  to  all  simple  pleasures,  and  a 
certain  weariness  of  life,  had  succeeded  the  young  man's  brief  career  of 
dissipation. 

As  his  fortune  mended  with  the  first  few  years  of  his  new  and  steady  life, 
something  of  the  miser's  feeling  topic  possession  of  his  cold  nature.  He  had  spent 
his  money  upon  ungrateful  boon  companions,  who  had  laughed  at  him  for  his 
pains,  and  refused  him  a  guinea  when  his  purse  was  low.  He  would  be  warned 
by  the  past,  and  learn  to  be  wiser  in  the  future.  Small  tenants  on  the  Compton 
Hall  estate  began  to  murmur  to  each  other  that  Master  Ringwood  Markham  was 
a  hard  landlord,  and  that  times  were  even  worse  now  for  poor  folks  than  iu  the 
old  squire's  day.  These  poor  people  spoke  nothing  but  the  truth.  As  Ringwood's 
empty  purse  filled  once  more,  the  young  man  felt  a  greedy  eagerness  to  save 
money  ;  for  what  purpose  he  scarcely  gave  himself  the  trouble  to  think.  Perhaps 
when  he  did  think  very  seriously,  a  shuddering  fear  came  over  him  that  his  im- 
paired constitution  was  not  to  be  easily  mended— that  even  the  fine  north-couiiitry 
air  sweeping  across  broad  expanses  of  brown  moorland,  and  floating  in  at  the  open 
windows  of  the  oak  parlour,  could  never  bring  a  healthy  glow  back  to  his  flushed 
cheeks  ;  and  that  it  might  be  that  he  inherited  with  his  mother's  fair  face  some- 
thing of  her  feebleness  of  constitution.  But  it  was  rarely  that  he  suffered  his 
mind  'to  dwell  upon  these  things.  *He  was  his  own  stewart,  and  rode  a  grey  pony 
about  the  farm,  watching  the  men  at  their  work^and  gloating  over  the  progress 
of  the  crops  as  the  changing  seasons  did  their  bounteous  work,  a"nd  the  bright  face 
of  plenty  met  him  in  his  way. 

Northern  harvests  are  late,  and  that  harvest  was  especially  late  which  was  gar- 
nered in  the  seventh  autumn  succeeding  the  last  sailing  of  the  good  ship  Vulture 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE..  ,  (]o 

from  the  harbor  at  Marley  "Water.  September  had  been  wet  and  cold,  and  October 
set  in  with  a  gloomy  aspect,  as  of  an  unwelcome  winter  come  before  his  due  time. 
In  the  early  days  of  this  chill  and  cheerless  October,  they  were  still  stacking  the 
corn  upon  the  Compton  Hall  farm,  while  Ringwood,  on  his  white  pony,  rode  from 
field  to  field  to  watch  the  progress  of  the  men.  The  young  squire  was  cautious 
and  suspicious,  and  rarely  thought  that  work  was  well  done  unless  he  was  at  the 
heels  of  those  who  did  it. 

He  paid  dearly  enough  for  this  want  of  faith  in  those  who  served  him,  for  it 
was  in. one  of  these  rides  that  he  caught  a  chill  th;ir  Bettled  on  his  lungs,  and 
threw  him  on  a  bed  of  sickness. 

At  the  first  hint  of  his  illness,  Milliecnt  was  by  his  side,  patient  and  loving, 
eager  to  soothe  and  comfort,  to  tend  and  to  vesture.  Like  all  creatures  of  his 
class,  weak  alike  in  physical  and  mental  qualities,  the  joung  man  peculiarly  felt 
the  helplessness  of  his  state.  Tie  clung  to  his  sister  as  if  he  had  been  a  sick  child 
and  she  his  mother.  Tn  the  dead  of  the  night  he  would  awake  with  the  cold 
drops  standing  on  his  brow,  and  cry  aloud  to  her  to  come  to  him  ;  then,  comforted 
and  reassured  at  finding  her  watching  by  his  side,  he  would  fall  into  a  peace- 
ful slumber,  with  her  hand  clasped  in  his,  and  his  fair  head  pillowed  upon  liei 
shoulder.  * 

The  Compton  doctor  shook  his  head  when  he  looked  at  the  young  squire's  hectic 

cheeks  and  sounded  his  narrow  chest.     Not  satisfied  with  the  village  surgeon's 

-ion,  Millicant  sent  to  Marley  "Water  for  a  physician  to  look  at  her  sinking 

brother  ;  but  the  physician  only  confirmed  what  his  colleague  had   already  said. 

There  was  no  hope  for  Ringwood.     Little  matter  whether  they  called  it  a  violent 

*  cold,  or  a   spasmodic  cough,  inflammation  of  the  lungs,  or  low  fever.     All  that 

I  e  fold  about  him  would  have  been  better  told  in  one  word — consumption. 

His  mother  had  died  of  it  before  him,  fading  quietly  away  as  he  was  fading  now. 

In  the  dismal  silence  of  those  long  winter  nights  in  which  the  sick  man  awoke 
$0  often — always  to  sec  Millicent's  fair  face,  lighted  by  the  faint  glimmer  of  the 
night-lamp,  or  the  glow  of  the  embers  in  the  grato — Ringwood  began  to  think  of 
his  past  life — a  brief  life,  which  had  been  spent  to  no  useful  end  whatsoever — a 
selfish  life  that  had  been  passed  in  stolid  indifference  t<>  the  good  of  others — per- 
haps, from  this  terrible  uselessness.  almost  a  wicked  life. 

A  few  nights  before  that  upon  which  the  young  squire  died,  he  lay  awake  a 
long  time  couutiug  the  chiming  of  the  quarters  from  the  turret  of  Compton 
church,  listening  to  the  embers  falling  on  the  broad  stone  hearth,  and  the  iv\ 
leaves  flapping  and  scraping  at  the  window  panes,  with  something  like  the  sound 
skeleton  fingers  tapping  for  admittance.  And  from  this  he  fell  to  watching 
bis  •  e  as  she  sat  in  a  low  chair  by  the  hearth,  with  her  large,  thoughtful 

blue  eyes  fixed  upon  the  hollow  fire,  and  the  unread  volume  half  dropping  from 
her  loose  hand. 

How  pretty  she  was,  lie  thought  ;  but  what  a  pensive  beauty  !  How  little  of 
the  light  of  joy  had  ever  beamed  from  those  melancholy  eyes  since  the  old  days 
when-  Harrell  and  she  were  friends  and  playfellows,  before  Captain  George  Duke 
had  ever  shown  his  handsome  face  at  {he  Hall.  Thinking  thus,  it  was  only 
natural  for  him  to  remember  his  t>wn  share  jn  fon-ing  on  this  unhappy  marriage  ; 
how  he  had  persuaded  his  father  to  hear  no  girlish  prayers,  and  to  heed  neither 
tears  nor  lamentations.     Re:  g  this,  he  could  but  remember  also  the  mean 


£4  DARRELL  MARKHAM ;  OR 

motive  that  had  urged  him  to  this  course ;  the  contemptible  spite  against  his 
cousin  Darrell,  that  had  made  him  eager  even  for  the  shipwreck  of  his  sister's 
happiness,  so  that  her  lover  might  suffer.  He  was  dying  now,  and  the  world  and 
all  that  was  in  it  was* of  so  little  use  to  him,  that  he  was  ready  enough  to  forgive 
his  cousin  all  the  old  grudges  between  them,  and  to  wish  him  well  for  the  future. 

1  Millicent !'  'he  said,  by  and  bye. 

'  Yes,  flear,'  answered  his  sister,  creeping  to  his  side.  '  I  thought  you  were 
asleep.     Have  you  been  awake  long,  Ringwood  ?' 

'  Yes ;  a  long  time.' 

'  A  long  time  !  my  poor  boy.' 

1  Perhaps  it's  better  to- be  awake  sometimes,'  murmured  the  sick  man.  '  I  don't 
want  to  slip  o"t  of  life  in  one  long  sleep.     I've  been  thinking,  Millicent.' 

•  Thinking,  dear  V 

'  Yes ;  thinking  what  a  bad  brother  I've  been  to  you.' 

'  A  bad  brother,  Ringwood.  No,  no,  no  !'  She  fell  on  her  knees  by  the  bed- 
side as  she  spoke,  and  cast  her  loving  arms  about  his  wasted  frame. 

'  Yes,  Millicent,  a  bad  brother.  I  helped  to  urge  on  your  marriage  with  a  man 
you  hated.  I  helped  to  part  you  from  the  man  you  loved,  and  to  make  your 
young  life  miserable.  You  know  that,  and  yet  you're  here,  night  after  night, 
nursing  me  as  tenderly  as  if  I'd  never  thought  but  of  your  happiness.' 

'  The  past  is  all  forgiven  long  ago,  dear  Ringwood,'  said  his  sister,  earnestly  ; 
'  it  would  be  ill  for  brother  and  sister  if  the  love  between  them  could  not  outlive 
oldinjuries,  and  be  the  brighter  and  the  truer  for  old  sorrows.  I  have  outlived 
the  memory  of  my  misery  long  ago.  Ringwood,  dear,  I  have  led  a  tranquil  life 
for  years  past,  and  it  seems  as  if  it  had  pleased  God  to  set  me  free  from  the  ties 
that  seemed  so  heavy  to  bear.' 

1  You  will  be  almost  a  rich  woman  after  my  death,  Milly/  said  her  brother, 
with  a  more  cheerful  tone.  "I  have  done  a  good  deal  in  these  last  five  years  to 
improve  the  property,  and  you  will  find  a*bag  full  of  guineas  in  the  brass-handled 
bureau,  where  I  keep  all  my  papers  and  accounts.  I  think  you  may  trust  John 
Martin,  the  baliff,  and  Lawson  and  Thomas,  and  they  will  keep  an  eye  upon  the 
farm  for  your  interest.  You'll  have  to  grow  a  woman  of  busiuess  when  I'm  gone, 
Milly,  and  it  wiH  be  a  fine  change  for  you  from  yonder  cottage  in  Compton  High 
street  to  this  big  house.' 

'Ringwood,  Ringwood,  don't  speak  of  this  V 

'  But  I  must,  Milly.  It's  time  to  speak  of  these  things  when  a  man  feels  he 
has  not  an  hour  upon  this  side  of  the  grave  that  he  can  call  his  own.  I  want  you 
to  promise  me  something,  Millicent,  before  I  die;  for  a  promise  made  to  a  dying 
man  is  always  binding.' 

'  Ringwood  dear,  what  is  there  I  would  not  do  for  you  V 

'  I  knew  you  wouldn't  refuse.  Now  listen.  How  long  his  Captain  Duke  been, 
away  ?' 

She  thought  by  this  sudden  mention  of  her  husband's  name  that  Ringwood's 
mind  was  wandering. 

'  Seven  years,  dear,  next  January.' 

'  I  thought  so.  Now,  Milly,  listen  «to  me.  When  the  mouth  of  January  is 
nearly  out,  I  want  you  to  take  a  journey  to  London,  aud  carry  a  letter  from  me  to 
Darrell  Markham.' 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE.  <35 

'  I'll  do  it,  dear  Ringwood,  and  would  do  more  than  that,  if  you  wish.  But 
why  in  January  ?     Why  not  sooner  V 

•  Because  it's  a  fancy  T  have ;  a  sick  nun's  fancy,  perhaps.  Thd  letter  is  not 
written  yet,  but  I'll  write  it  before  I  fall  asleep  again.  Get  me  the  pen  and  ink; 
Milly.' 

'  To-morrow,  dearest,  not  to-night,'  she  pleaded  ;  '  you've  been  fatiguing  yourself 
already  with  talking  so  much;  write  the  letter  to-morrow.' 

'  No,  to-night/  he  said,  impatiently;  "  this  very  night,  this  very  hour.  I  shall 
fall  into  a  fever  of  anxiety  if  T  don't  write  without  a  moment's  delay.  It  is  but  a 
few  lines.' 

His  loving  nurse  thought  it  better  to  comply  with  his  wishes  than  to  irritate 
him  by  a  refusal.  She  brought  paper,  pens,  ink,  sealing-wax  and  seals,  and  a 
lighted  candle,  and  arranged  them  on  the  little  table  by  his  bedside.  She  propped 
him  up  with  pillows,  so  as  to  make  his  task  as  easy  to  him  as  possible,  and  then 
quietly  withdrew  to  her  seat  by  the  hearth. 

The  reader  knows  how  difficult  penmanship  was  to  llingwood  Markham  even 
when  in  good  health.  It  was  a  very  hard  task  to  him  to-night.  He  labored  long 
and  painfully  with  the  spluttering  quill  pen,  and  wrote  but  a'few  lines  after  all. 
These  he  read  and  re-read  with  evident  satisfaction ;  and  then  folding  the  big 
sheet  of  foolscap  very  carefully,  he  sealed  it  with  a  great  splash  of  red  wax  and 
the  Markham  arms,  and  addressed  it  in  a  feeble,  sprawling  hand,  with  many  blots, 
to  Darritt  Markham,  E*<j.,  (>>  be  delivered  to  him  by  Millicent  Duke,  <tt  ih<<  ,?■.-■■ 
',/  January,  17 — . 

'  I  have  done  Darrell  many  a  wrong,'  he  said,  as  he  handed  the  letter  to  his 
sister,  'but  I  think  that  this  may  repair  all.  It  is  my  last  will  and  testxment, 
Milly.     I  shall  make  no  other,  for  their  is  none  to  claim  the  property  but  you.' 

'And  you  have  left  Darrell  something  then  ?'  she  asked. 

'Nothing  but  that  letter.  T  trust  to  you  to  .deliver fl  faithfully,  and  I  know, 
that  Darrell  will  be  content.' 

o  0  Q  c  o  o 

Mrs.  Sarah  Pecker  came  to  the  Hall  whenever  she  had  a  spare  moment,  to  help 
Millicent  in  her  task  of  nursing  the  dying  man.  She  was  with  her  at  that  last 
dying  moment,  when  the  faint  straws  of  life  to  which  the  young  squire  had  clung 
floated  one  by  one  out  of  his  feebled  hands,  and  left  him  to  be  engulfed  in  Death's 
pitiless  ocean. 


CHAPTER  NIL— Captain  Fanny. 

Six  years  had  passed  since  that  Christmas-eve  upon  which  the  foreign-looking 

pedlaT  robbed   Mrs.  Sarah   Pecker,  and  worked  such  a  wonderful  change  for  the 

r  in  the  fortunes  and  social  status  of  her  husband  Samuel;  and  again  Bcity 

the  cook-maid  was  busy  plucking  geese  and  turkeys;  and  again  Mrs.  Sarah  stood 

at  her  ample  dresser  rolling  out  the  paste  for  Christmas  pies;  agaiu  the  mighty 

coal  fire  roared  half-way  up  the  chimney,  and  the  capacious  oven  was  like  a 

furnace,  and  ouly  to  be  approached  with  due  precaution, — a  glorious  cavern  out 

of  which  good  things  seemed  for  ever  issuing; — big,  sprawling,  crusty,  golden, 

•  .lining  batches  of  pie-,  small  i  of  flat  cakes  of  so 

5 


qq  DARRELL  MARKHAM  ;  OR 

little  account  as  to  be  flung  without  ceremony  upon  the  bare  hearth,  to  grow  cool 
at  their  leisure. 

But  for  all  that  these  Christmas  preparations  differed  in  no  manner  from  those 
of  a  Christmas  six  years  before,  there  were  changes  at  the  Bear — changes  which 
the  reader  has  already  been  told  of.  Mrs.  Pecker  had  grown  wondrously  subdued 
in  voice  and  manner.  Something  almost  of  timidity  mingled  with  this  new  manner 
of  the  portly  Sarah's — something  of  a  perpetual  uneasiness — a  continual  dread,  no 
one  knew  of  what.  So  changed,  indeed,  was  she  in  this  respect,  that  Samuel  had 
sometimes  to  cheer  her  and  console  her  when  she  was  what  he  called  "  low,"  and 
to  administer  modest  glasses  of  punch  or  comfortable  hot  suppers  as  restoratives. 

While  things  were  thus  with  Sarah,  her  worthy  husband  had  very  much  im- 
proved under  his  better-half's  new  manner  of  treatment.  #  • 

He  was  no  longer  afraid  of  his  own  customers  nor  of  his  own  voice.  .  He  no 
longer  trembled  or  blushed  when  suddenly  addressed  in  conversation.  He  could  , 
venture  to  draw  himself  a  mug  of  his  own  ale  without  looking  nervously  across 
his  shoulder  all  the  while.  Samuel  Pecker  was  a  new  man  ;  still  a  little  given  to 
believe  in  ghosts,  perhaps,  and  to  be  solemn  when  coffin-shaped  cinders  flew  out 
of  the  fire ;  still  a  little  doubtful  as  to  going  anywhere  alone  in  the  dark  ;  but  for 
all  that  a  very  lion  of  audacity  and  courage  compared  to  what  he  had 'been  before 
the  foreign-looking  pedlar  threw  Mrs.  Pecker  into  a  swoon. 

The  Bear  was  especially  gay  this  Christmas-eve,  for  a  party  of  gentlemen  had 
ridden  over  from  York,  and  were  dining  in  the  white  parlor,  a  state  apartment  on 
the  first-floor;  they  were  to  sleep  that  night  and  spend  their  Christmas-day  at  the 
inn,  and  the  turkey  lying  helplessly  in  Betty's  lap  was  set  aside  for  them. 

'And  isn't  oneof  'em  a  handsome  one,  too?'  said  1he  cook,  pulling  vigorously 
at  one  of  the  biggest  feathers.  '  You  should  go  in  and  have  a  look  at  'un,  missus — 
such  black  eyes,  that  pierce  you  through  and  through  like  a  streak  of  lightning ! 
and  little  white  hands,  just  for  all  the  world  like  Mrs.  Duke's,  and  all  covered 
With  diamonds  and  such  like.  And  ain't  he  a  saucy  one,  too  ?  and  ain't  the  others 
afraid  of  him  ?     The  other  two  were  for  leaving  here  after  dinner,  and  when  he 

said  he  should  stay,  one  of  'em  asked  if  the  place  was something,  I  couldn't 

catch  the  word ;  but  he  burst  .out  laughing,  and  told  him  he  was  a  lily-livered 
rascal,  and  not  fit  company  for  gentlemen,  and  the  other  rattled  his  glass  on  the 
table,  and  said  the  Captain  was  right — only  he  swore  awfiil !'  added  Betty,  with 
solemn  horror. 

While  the  cook  was  amusing  her  mistress  with  these  details,  Samuel  put  his 
head  in  at  the  kitchen  door. 

'Them  bloods  in  the  white  parlour  are  rare  noisy  ones/  he  said  ;  '  they  want 
half  a  dozen  of  the  old  port,  and  there's  only  three  of  them,  and  they've  had 
Madeira  and  claret  already.  I  wish  you'd  go  up  to  'em,  Sarah,  and  give  'em  a 
hint  that  they  might  be  a  little  quieter.  I'll  go  down  for  the  .wine,  if  you'll  put 
yourself  straight  while  I'm  getting  it.' 

Sarah  complied,  wiped  the  flour  from  her  hands,  smoothed  her  cap-ribbons,  and 
drew  on  her  mittens  by  the  time  Samuel  emerged  from  the  cellar  with- two 
cobweb-shrouded  black  bottles  under  each  arm. 

'  I've  brought  four,  Sally,'  he  said,  as  he  landed  the  precious  burden  on  the 
kitchen  table.    '  I'll  carry  them  up  for  you,  and  you  can  bring  a  few  glasses-.' 
The  trio  in  the  white  parlor  was  certainly  rather  a  riotous  one.     A  pair  of  mas- 


THE  CAPTAIN  OL    THE  VULTURE."  37 

sive  was  caudles  burned  in  solid  silver  candle-sticks  upon  the  polished  oaken 
table,  which  was  strewed  with  uuts,  figs,  raisins,  oranges,  and  nut-crackers,  and 
amply  garnished  with  empty  bottles  and  glittering  diamond-cut  wine-glasses. 
One  of  the  party  had  Hang  himself  back  on  his  chair,  and  planted  his  spurred 
heels  upon  this  very  dessert  table,  while  lie  amused  himself  by  pealing  an  Orange 
and  throwing  the  rind  at  his  opposite  neighbor,  who,  more  than  halt"  tipsy,  sat 
with  his  elbows- on  the  table  and  his  chin  in  his  hands,  staring  vacantly  at  his 
tormentor.  The  third  member  of  the  little  party,  and  he  who  seemed  far  the 
most  sober  of  the  three,  lounged,  with  his  back  to  the  fire  and  his  elbow  leaning 
oa  the  niautlepiece.  and  was  in  the  midst  of  some  anecdote  he  was  telling  as 
Mrs.  Pecker  entered  the  room.  His  flashing  black  eyes,  and  his  small  white 
Wseth,  which  glittered  as  he  spoke,  lit  up  his  face,  which,  in  spite  of  his  evident, 
youth,  was  wan  and  haggard — the  face  of  a  man  prematurely  old  from  excite- 
ment and  dissipation  ;  the  hand  of  time  during  the  last  six  years  had  drawn 
many  a  wriukle  about  the  wrest  less  eyes  and  determined  mouth  of  Sir  Lovel 
Mortimer,  Baronet,  alias  Captain  Fanny,  highwayman,  and,  on  occasion,  house- 
breaker. Heaven  knows  what  there  was  in  the  appearance  of  either  of  the  party  to 
overawe  or  agitate  the  worthy  mistress  of  the  Black  Bear,  but  certainly  a  faint  aud 
dusky  pallor  crept  over  Sarah  Pecker's  face  as  she  set  the  wine  and  glasses  upon 
the  table.  '  She  seemed  nervous  and  uneasy  under  the  strange  dazzle  of  Captain 
Fanjtty's  black  eyes.  I  have  said  that  they  were  not  ordinary  black  eyes;  indeed, 
there  was  something  in  them  that  the  physiognomists  of  to-day  would  have  set. 
themselves  industriously  to  work  to  define  and  explain.  They  were  not  only 
restless,  but  there  was  a  look,  in  them  almost  of  terror — not  of  a  terror  of  to-day 
or  yesterday,  but  of  some  dim  far-away  time  too  remote  for  memory — some  ner- 
vous shock  received  long  before  the  mind  had  power  to  mote  its  force,  but  which 
had  left  its  lasting  seal  upon  one  feature  of  the  lace. 

Sarah  Pecker  dropped  and  broke  one  of  her  best  wine-glasses  under  the  strange 
influence  of  these  restle>s  eyes.  They  fix^d  her  gaze  as  if  they  had  some  mag- 
netic power.  She  followed  every  motion  of  them  earnestly,  almost  inquiringly, 
till  the  highwayman  addressed  her. 

1  We  have  the  extreme  honour  of  being  waited  upon  by  the  landlady  of  the 
Bear  in  her  own  gracious  person,  have  we  not?'  he  said  gallantly,  admiring  his 
small  jewelled  hand  as  he  spoke.  He  was  but  a  puny,  almost  wasted  stripling, 
this  dashing  captain,  and  it  was  only  the  extreme  vitality  in  himself  that  pre- 
served him  from  insignificauce. 

Now  at  any  other  time  Sarah  Pecker  would   have  dropped  a  curtsey,  smoothed 

her  muslin  apron,  and  asked  her  guests  whether  their  dinner  had  beea  to  their 

liking;  if  their  rooms  were  comfortable ;  the  wine  agreeable  to  their  taste,  and 

•  other  Buch  hospitable  questions;  but  to-night  she  seemed  tongue-tied,  as  if 

-lit  in  the  Captain's  eyes  had  almost  magnetized  her  into  silence. 

'  Ye-,'  she  murmured,  '1  am  Sarah  Pecker.' 

'And  a  very  comfortable  and  friendly  creature  you  look,  Mrs.   Pecker,' an-, 

swered  Captain  Fanny,  with  a  sublime  air  of  patronage.     '.A  recommendation  in 

your  own  person  to  the  hospitable  shelter  of  the  Bear;  and,  egad  I  Co»ptoo»Ota- 

the -'  need  of  some  pleasant  place  of  entertainment  for  the  unlucky  trav- 

indt  himself  by  mischance  in  its  dreary  neighboring. d       •'  ver 

1.  turning 


.£§  DARRELL  MARKHAM  ;  OR 

But  Mrs.  Sarah  Pecker  had  been  born  in  the  village  of  Conrpton,  and  was  by 
no  means  disposed  to  stand  by  and  hear  her  native  place  so  contemptuously 
spoken  of-     Turning  her  face  a  little  away  from  the  dashing  knight  of  the  road, 
as  if  it  were  easier  to  her  to  speak  when  out  of  the  radius  of  those  unquiet  eyes,  i 
she  said,  with  some  dignity, 

'  Compton-on-the-Moor  may  be  a  retired  place,  gentlemen,  being  nigh  upon  a 
week's  journey  from  London,  but  it  is  a  pleasant  village  in  summer  time,  and 
there  are  a  great  many  noble  families  about.' 

'  Ah,  by  the  bye  !'  replied  Captain  Fanny,  '  we  took  notice  of  a  big,  red-brick, 
square-built  house,  standing  amongst  some  fine  timber,  upon  a  bit'of  rising  ground, 
half  a  mile  on  the  other  side  of  the  village.  A  dull  old  dungeon  enough  it 
looked,  with  half  the  windows  shut  up.     Who  does  that  belong  to  V 

'  It  is  called  Compton  Hall,  sir/  answered  Sarah,  '  and  it  did  belong  to  young- 
Squire  Bingwood  Markham/ 

'  Bingwood  Markham !     A  fair-faced  lad,  with  blue  eyes  and  a  small  waist  V 

'The  same,  sir/ 

'  I  knew  him  six  years  ago  in  London.' 

'Very  likely,  sir.  Poor  Master  Bingwood  had  his  fling  of  London  life,  and 
very  little  he  got  by  it,  poor  boy.  He's  gone  now,  sir.  He  was  only  buried  three 
weeks  ago.' 

*  And  Compton  Hall  belonged  to  him  ?' 

'  Yes,  sir ;  ind  Compton  Hall  farm,  which  brings  in  an  income  of  four  or  five 
hundred  a  year.' 

'  And  who  does  the  Hall  belong  to  now,  then  ?'  asked  Captain  Fanny. 

*  To  his  sister,  sir,  Miss  Millicent  that  was — Mrs.  Duke.' 

*  Mrs.  Duke  '     The  wife  of  a  sailor — one  George  Duke  V 
4  The  widow  of  Captain  George  Duke,  sir.' 

'  The  widow  !     What,  is  George  Duke  dead  V 

*  Little  doubt  of  that,  sir.  The  captain  sailed  from  Marley  Water  seven  years 
ago  come  January,  and  neither  he  nor'his  ship,  the  Vulture,  have  ever  been  heard 
of  since/ 

'And  the  widow  of  George  Duke  has  come  into  a  property  worth  four  or  •five 
hundred  a  year  ?' 

'Yes,  sir;  worth  that,  if  it's  worth  a  farthing/ 

'  And  the  only  proof  she  has  ever  had  of  George  Duke's  death  is  his  seve"n 
years'  absence  from  Compton-on-the-Moor?'    ■ 

'  She  could  scarcely  need  a  stronger  proof,  I  should  think,  sir/    . 

'  Couldn't  she  ?'  exclaimed  the  young  man,  with  a  laugh.  '  Why,  Mrs.  Sarah 
Pecker;  I  have  seen  so  much  of  the  strange  chances  and  changes  of  this  world 
that  I  seldom  believe  a  man  is  dead  unless  I  see  him  put  into  his  coffin,  the  lid 
screwed  down  upon  him,  and  the  earth  shovelled  into  his  grave;  and  even  then 
'there  are  some  people  such  slippery  cu#tomers  that  I  should  scarcely  be  surprised 
to  meet  them  at  the  gate  of  the  churchyard.  The  world  is  wide  enough  outside 
Compton-on-the-Moor :  who  knows  that  Captain  Duke  may  not  come  back  to- 
morrow to  claim  his  wife  and  her  fortune  V 

'  The  Lord  forbid  !'  said  Mrs.  Pecker,  earnestly  ;  '  I  would  rather  not  be 
wishing  ill  to  any  one  ';  but  sooner  than  poor  Miss  Millicent  should  see  him  come 


the  Captain  of  the  vultui  gg 

back  to  break  her  heart  and  waste  her  money,  I  would  pray  that  the  Captain  of 
the   Vulture  may  lie  drowned  and  dead  under  the  foreign  seas." 

' A  pious  wish  !'  cried  Captain  Fanny,  laughing.  '  However,  as  I  don't  know 
the  gentleman,. Mrs.  Pecker,  I  don't  mind  saying,  Amen?  But  as  to  seven  years' 
absence  being  proof  enough  to  make  a  woman  a  widow,  that's  a  common  mistake, 
and  a  vulgar  one,  Mrs.  Sarah,  that  I  scarcely  expected  from  a  woman  of  your 
sense      Seven  years — why,  husbands  have  coine  back  after  seventeen  !' 

Mr.  Pecker  made  no  answer  to  this.  If  her  face  was  paler  even  than  it  had 
been  before,  it  was  concealed  from  observation  as  she  bent  over  the  dessert-table- 
collecting  the  dirty  glasses  upon  her  troy. 

When  she  had  left  the  room,  and  the  three  young  men  were  once  more  alone, 
Captain  Fanny  burst  into  a  peal  of  ringing  laughter. 

'  Here's  news !'  he  cried ;  '  split  me,  lads,  here's  a  joke!  George  Duke  dead 
and  gone,  and  George  Puke's  widow  with  a  fine  estate  and  a  farm  that  produces 
five  hundred  a  year.  If  that  fool,  sulky  Jeremiah,  hadn't  quarrelled  with  his 
best  friends,  and  given  us  the  slip  in  that  cursed  ungrateful  manner,  here  would 
have  been  a  chance  for  him  !' 


CHAPTER  XIII.— The  End  of  January. 

Captain  Fanny,  otherwise  Sir  Lovel  Mortimer,  did  not  leave  the  Black  Bear 
until  the  morning  after  Christmas  day,  when  he  and  his  two  companions  rode 
blithely  off  through  the  frosty  December  sunlight;  a£.er  expressing  much  cou- 
teut  with  the  festival  fare  provided  by  Mrs.  Pecker;  after  paying  the  bill  without 
so  much  as  easting  a  glance  at  the  items ;  after  remembering  the  ostler,  the  cham- 
bermaid, the  boots,  and*cvery  other  member  of  the  comfortable  establishment  who 
had  an}r  claim  to  advance  upon  the  generosity  of  the  west-country  baronet. 

So  entirely  occupied  were  the  domestics  of  the  Black  Bear  in  discussing  their 
late  distinguished  visitor,  that  the  news  of  a  desperate  highway  robbery,  accom- 
panied by  much  violence,  that  had  taken  place  near  Carlisle,  on  the  night  of  De- 
cember the  twenty-third,  made  scarcely  any  impression  upon  them.  Nor  were 
they  even  very -seriously  affected  by  an  attack  upon  the  York  mail,  the  tidings  of 
which  reached  them  two  days  after  the  departure  of  Sir  Lovel  and  his 
companions.  ■ 

In  the  kitchen  at  the  Black  Bear,  they  spent  the  few  remaining  December 
evenings  in  talking  of  the  gay  young  visitors  who  had  lately  enlivened  the  hos- 
telry by  their  presence,  while  Milliccut  Duke,  looking  fairer  and  paler  than  ever 
iu  her  mourning  gown,  sat  alone  in  the  oak  parlour  at  Compton  Hall,  with  the 
brass-handled  bureau  opeu  before  her,  and  her  poor  brains  patiently  at  work,  try- 
ing to  understand  some  farming  accounts  rendered  by  her  bailiff. 

Mrs.  Q-eorge  Duke  found  faithful  Sarah  Pecker  an  inestimable  comfort  to  her 
in  her  bereavement  and  accession  of  fortune.-  I  think,  but  for  the  help  of  that 
sturdy  creature,  pour  Millioent  would  have  made  Compton  Hall  and  Compton  farm 
a  present  to  the  stalwart  Cumbrian  bailiff,  and  would  have  gone  quietly  back  t  • 
her  cottage  in  the  High  i  wait  for  the  coming  of  death,  or  Captai 

Duke,  i  r  any  other  calamity  which  was   the  predestined  close   of  bet  joyless 


70  DARRELL  'MARKHAM;  OR 

But  Sarah  Pecker  was  worth  a  dozen  lawyers,  and  half-a-dozen  stewards.  She 
attended  at  the  reading  of  the  will,  in  which  her  own  name  was  written  down  for 
*  fifty  golden  guineas  and  a  mourning^ring,  containing  ray  hair,  in  remembrance 
of  much  love  and  kindness,  to  cost  ten  guineas,  and  no  less.'  She  mastered  all 
the  bearings  of  that  intricate  document,  and  knew  more  of  it  after  one  reading 
than  even  the  lawyer  who  had  drawn  it  up.  She  talked  to  Millicent  about  quar- 
ters of  wheat,  and  hay  and,  turnips,, till  poor  Mrs.  Duke's  brain  reeled  with  vague 
admiration  of  Sarah's  prodigious  learning.  The  stalwart  bailiff  trembled  before  . 
the  mistress  of  the  Black  Bear,  and  went  into  long  stammering  explanations  to 
account  for  a  quarter  of  a  truss  of  hay  that  had  been  twisted  into  bands,  lest  he" 
should  be  suspected  of  dishonesty  in  the  transaction. 

When  all  was  duly  settled  and  adjusted,  Millicent  Duke  found  herself  almost  a 
rich  woman.     Rich  enough,  at  any  rate,  to  be  considered  a  very  wealthy  person  by 
the  simple  inhabitants  of  Compton-on-the-Moor,  unless  indeed,  the  long-missing  ' 
husband,  Captain  George  Duke'  of  the  good  ship  Vulture,  should  return  to  claim 
a  share  in  his  wife's  newly-acquired  fortune. 

The  thought  that  there  .was  a  remote  possibility,  a  shadowy  chance  of  this, 
would  send  a  cold  chill  to  Millicent's  heart,  and  seem  almost  to  stop  its  beating. 

If  he  should  come  home !  If,  after  all  these  years  of  fearful  watching  and 
waiting,  of  trembling  at  the  sound  of  every  manly  footstep,  and  shuddering  at 
every  voice — if,  after  all,  now  that  she  had  completely  given  him  up — now  that 
she  was  rich,  and  might  perhaps  by-and-bye  be  happy — if,  at  this  time  of  all 
others,  the  scourge  of  her  young  life  should  return  and  claim  her  once  more  as 
his  to  hold  and  to  torture  by  the  laws  of  God  and  man !  A  kind  of  distraction 
would  take  possession  of  her  at  the  thought.  She  would  deliver  herself  up  to 
the  horrible  fancy  until  she  could  call  up  the  image  of  the  Captain  of  the  Vul- 
ture, standing  op  the  threshold  of  the  door,  with  the  wicked,  vengeful  light  in 
his  brown  eyes,  and  the  faint,  far-off,  breezy  perfume  of  the  ocean  hovering  about 
his  chestnut  hair.  Then  casting  herself  upon  her  knees*  she  would  call  upon 
Heaven  to  spare  her  from  this  terrible  anguish — to  strike  her  dead  before  that 
dreaded  husband  could  return  to  claim  her. 

The  diamond  ear-ring,  the  fellow  of  Avhich  Captain  Duke  had  taken  from  her 
on  the  night  of  their  parting  at  Marley  Water,  had  been  religiously  kept  by  her 
in  a  little  red  morocco-covered  jewel-box.  She  was  too  simple  and  conscientious 
a  creature  to  dream  of  disobeying  her  husband's  commands.  •She  looked  some- 
times at  the  solitary  trinket ;  and  seldom  looked  at  it  without  praying  that  she 
miglit  never  see  its  fellow.  She  wished  George  Duke  no  harm.  Her  only  wish 
was  that  they  might  never  meet  again.  She  would  willingly  have  sold  the 
Compton  property,  and  have  sent  him  every  fathing  yielded  by  its  sale,  had  she 
known  him  to  be  living,  so  that  he  had  but  remained  away  from  her. 

Millicent  was  the  onjy  person  in  Compton  who  entertained  any  doubt  of  Capt. 
Duke's  decease.  The  seven  years  which  had.  elapsed  since  his  departure — years 
.of  absence,  unbroken  by  a  single  line  from  himself,  or  by  one  word  of  tidings 
from  any  accidental  source — the  common  occurrence  of  wreck  and  disaster  upon 
the  seas,  the  .suspicions  entertained  by  many  as  to  the  Captain's  unlawful  mode  of 
life,  all  pointed  to  one  conclusion — he  was  dead.  He  had  gone  to  the  bottom  of 
the  sea  with  his  own  vessel,  or  had  been  hewn^down  by  the  cutlass  of  a  French- 
man; or  the  scimitar  of  a  Moorish  pirate.     The  story  of  Millicent's  meeting  with 


.  •  THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE.  71 

her  husband's  shadow  upon  the  pier  at  Marley  Water  only  confirmed  this  belief 
in  the  death  of  George  Puke. 

Of  course,  Millicent  told  her  faithful  friend,  Sarah  Pecker,  of  the  letter  writ- 
ten by  Kingwood  a  few  nights  before  his  death,  and  to  be  delivered  by  her  to 
Darrell  Markham. 

The  two  women  looked  long  and  inquisitively  at  the  folded  sheet  of  foolscap, 
with  its  sprawling  red  seal,  wondering  what  mysterious  lines  were  written  on  the 
paper;  but  the  wishes  of  Millicent's  dead  brother  were  sacred;  and  as  the  first 
half  of  January  drew  to  a  close,  Mrs.  Puke  began  to  think  of  her  formidable 
journey  to  London. 

She  had  uevo|  been  further  away  from  home  than  on  the  occasion  of  a  brief 
visit  to  the  city  of  York,  and  the  thought  of  finding  ■her  way  to  the  great  metro- 
polis filled  her  with  something  almost  approaching  terror.  I  doubt  if  an  Eng- 
lishwoman of  this  present  year  of  grace  would  think  as  much  of  a  voyage  to  Cal- 
cutta as  poor  Millicent  thought  of  this  formidable  southward  jouuney;  but  her 
staunch  friend  Sarah  was  ready  to  stand  by  her  in  this,  as  well  as  in  every  other 
crisis  of  life. 

'  You  don't  suppose  you're  going  to  find  Mr.  Darrell  Markham  all  by  yourself, 
.do  you,  Miss  Millicent?'  asked  Sarah,  when  the  business  was  discussed. 

•  Why,  who  should  go  with  me,  Sally  dear?' 

'Ah,  whd  indeed?'  answered  Sarah,  rather  sarcastically  ;  '  who  but  Sally  Pecker, 
of  the  Black  Pear,  that  nursed  you  when  you  was  a  baby;  who  else,  I  should  like 
to  know  ?' 

-.You,  Sally?' 

•  Yes,  me.  I'd  send  Samuel  with  you,  Miss  Millicent,  dear,  for  there's  some- 
thing respectable  in  the  looks  of  .a  man,  and  we  could  put  him  into  one  of  the 
old  Markham  liveries,  and  call  him  your  servant;  but  Lord  have  mercy  on  us, 
what  a  lost  baby  that  goor  husband  of  mine  would  be  in  the  city  of  London!  1 
oannot  send  him  to  the  market-town  for  a  few  groceries,  without  knowing  before 
the  time  comes  that  he'll  bring  raisins  instead  of  sugar,  or  have  his  pocket  picked 
staring  at  some  Merry  Andrew.  No,  Miss  Millicent,  Samuel  Pecker's  the  best  of 
men  ;  but  you  don't  want  a  helpless  infant  to  put  you  in  the  right  way  for  finding 
Mr.  Darrell  J  so  you  must  take  me  with  you,  and  make  the  best  of  a  bad  bargain.' 

'My  dear,  good,  kind,  faithful  Sally!  Put  what  will  they  do  without  you  at 
the  Pear?  It  will  be  near  upon  a  fortnight's  journey  to  Loudon  and  back,  al- 
lowing for  some  dela}-  in  the  return  coach ;  what  will  they  do  ?' 

'Why,  do  their  best,  Miss  Millicent,  to  be  sure;  and  a  pretty  muddle  I  shall 
find  the  place  in  when  I  come  back.  L  dare  say  ;  but  don't  let  the  thought  of  that 
worry  you,  Miss  Milly  ;  I  shan't  mind  it  a  bit.  I  sometimes  fancy  things  go  too 
smooth  at  the  Pear,  and  1-  think  the  servants  do  their  work  well  for  sheer 
provocation.' 

Sarah  Pecker  was  so  thoroughly  determined  upon  accompanying  Millicent,  that 
Mrs,  George  Puke  yielded  with  a  good  grace,  thanked  her  stout  protectress,  and 
861  to  work  to  trim  a  mourning  bat  with  ruches  and  streamers  of  black  crape.  It 
was  Sarah  who  devised  the  trimmings  for  the  coquettish  little  hat,  ami  it  was  Sa- 
rah who  found  some  jet  ornaments  amongst  a  ehesti'ul  of  clothes  that  had  be- 
<1  to  Millicent's  mother,  wherewith  to  adorn  Mrs.  Duke's  fair  neck  and  arms. 

•I'  ]      rell  to  find  you  changed  for  th<  worse  in  tl 


72  '      DARRELI/  MARKHAM ;   OR 

seven  years,  Miss  Milly/  Sarali  remarked,  as  she  fastened  the  jet  necklace  round 
Millicent's  slender  throat.  i  These  black  clothes  are  vastly  becoming  to  your  fair 
skin ;  and  I  scarce  think  that  our  Darrell  will  be  ashamed  of  his  country  cousins, 
for  all  the  fine  London  madams  he  may  have  seen  since  he  left  Compton.' 

Mrs.  Sarah  Pecker  had  a  natural  and  almost  religious  horror  of  the  fair  inhabi- 
tants of  the  metropolis,  whom  she  dignified  with  the  generic  appellation  of  '  Lon- 
don madams.'  She  firmly  believed  the  feminine  portion  of  the  population  of  that 
unknown  city  to  be,  without  exception,  frivolous,  dissipated,  faro-playing,  masque- 
rade-haunting, painted,  patched,  and  bedizened  creatures,  whose  sold  end  and  aim 
was  to  lure  honest  young  country  squires  from  legitimate  attachments  to  rosy- 
cheeked  kinswomen  at  home. 

It  was  a  cheerless  and  foggy  morning  that  welcomed  Millicent  and  her  sturdy 
protectress  to  the  great  metropolis.  Sarah  Pecker,  putting  her  head  out  of  the 
coach  window,  at-  the  village  of  Islington,  saw  a  thick  mass  of  blackness  and 
cloud  looming  in  a  valley  before  her,  and  was  told  by  a  travelled  passenger  that  it 
(the  blackness  aud  the  cloud/)  was  Loudon.  It  was  at  a  ponderous,  roomy  inn, 
upon  Snow-hill,  that  Millicent  Duke  and  Sarah  were  deposited,  with  the  one  small 
trunk  that  formed  all  their  luggage.  Mrs.  Pecker  entered  into  conversation  with 
the  chambermaid,  who  brought  the  travellers  some  wretched  combination  of  a 
great  deal  of  crockery  and  a  very  little  weak  tea  and  blue-looking  milk,  face- 
tiously called  breakfast.  She  took  care  to  inform  that  domestic  that  the  pale 
young  lady  in  mourning,  who,  worn  out  by  travelling  all  night,  had  fallen  asleep 
upon  a  hard,  moreen-covered,  brass-nail-studded  sofa,  that  looked  as  if  it  had 
been  constructed  out  of  coffin-lids — Sarah  took  care,  I  say,  to  casually  inform  this 
young  person  that  her  companion  was  one  of  the  richest  women  in  all  Cumber- 
land, and  might  have  travelled  post  all  the  way  from  Compton  to  Snow-hill,  had 
she  been  pleased  to  spend  her  money.  Mrs  Pecker,  who  had  at  first  rather  in- 
clined towards  the  chambermaid,  as  a  simple,  plain-spoken  young  person,  took  of- 
fence at  the  cool  way  in  which  she  received  this  information,  and  classed  her 
forthwith  amongst  the  '  London  madams.' 

'  Cumbrian  gentry  count  for  little  with  you,  I  make  no  doubt,'  Sarah  remarked 
with  ironical  humility  ;  '  but  there  are  many  in  Cumberland  who  could  buy  up 
your  fine  town  folks,  and  leave  enough  for  themselves  after  they'd  made  the  bar- 
gain.' 

After  having  administered  this  dignified  reproof  to  the  chambermaid,  who  (no 
doubt  penetrated  and  abashed)  seemed  in  a  great  hurry  to  get  out  of  the  room, 
-Sarah  condescended  to  ask  the  way  to  St.  James's  square,  which  she  expected 
was  either  round  the  corner,-  or  across  the  street ;  somewhere  in  the  neighborhood 
of  the  Fleet,  or  Hatton  Garden. 

She  was  told  that  a  coach  or  a  chair  would  take  her  to  the  desired  locality, 
which  was  at  the  Court  end  of  London,  and  much  too  far  for  her  to  walk,  more 
especially  as  she  was  a  stranger,  and  not  likely  to  find  her  way  thither. 

Mrs.  Pecker  stared  hard  at  the  chambermaid,  as  if  she  would  very  much  have 
liked  to  convict  her  in  giving  a  false  direction ;  but  being  unable  to  do  so,  sub- 
mitted to  be  advised,  and  ordered  a  coach  to  be  ready  .in  an  hour. 

The  '  London  madams '  Mrs.  Pecker  saw  from  the  coach  window,  as  she  and 
her  fair  charge  were  driven  from  Snow  hill  to  St.  James's,  looked  rather  pinched 
and  blue-nosed  in  the  bitter  January  morning.     The  snow  upon  the  pavement 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE  7  , 

was  a  black  compound  unknown  at   Compton,  and  the  darkness  of  the  fo§g 
atmosphere  rendered  the  worthy  Sarah  rather  uneasy  as  to  the  possible  speedy 
advent  of  an  earthquake. 

The  hostess  of  the  Black  Bear  had  neither  read  Mr.  Creech's  translation  from 
Horace,  nor  Mi'.  Alexander  Pope's  quotation  from  the  same,,  but  she  had  reso- 
lutely determined  on  this,  her  vist  to  London,  to  preserve  her  dignity  by  a  stolid 
and  unmoved  demeanor.  Not  to  admire  was  all  the  art  she  knew  !  She  resolved 
that  from  the  whispering  gallery  of  St.  Paul's  Cathedral  to  the  Merry  Andrews 
in  Bartholomew  Fair,  nothing  she  beheld  should  wring  an  exclamation  of  surprise 
from  her  tightly  compressed  lips.  Although  the  distance  betweeu  Holborn  and 
Pall-mall  appeared  to  her  almost  illimitable,  she  scrupulously  preserved  her 
equanimity,  and  looked  from  the  coach  window  at  the  crowded  London  streets 
with  as  calm  and  critical  an  eye  as  that  with  which  she  would  have  examined  a 
field  of  wheat  in  her  native  Cumberland. 

All  the  busy  .panorama  of  the  metropolis  Passed  before  the  eyes  of  Millieeut 
Duke, as  a  dim  and  cloudy  picture,  in  which  no  figure  was  distinct  or  palpable. 
She  might  have  bceu  driven  close  beside  a  raging  fire,  and  yet  have  never  beheld 
the  flames  ;  or  across  a  cataract,  without  hearing  the  roar  of  the  boisterous  water.-. 
One  thought  and  one  image  filled  her  heart  and  brain,  and  she  had  neither  eyes 
nor  cars  for  the  busy  world  outside  the  coach  windows,  and  Sarah  Pecker  on  the 
seat  opposite  to  her. 

She  was  going  to  see  Darrell  Markham. 

For  the  first  time  after  seven  years — for  the  first  time  since  she  stood  bee 
the  bed  upon  which  he  lay  insensible,  with  the  blood-bedabbled  hair  and  pale  lips 
that  only  uttered  wandering  words,  she  was  to  see  him  again — to  see  him,  and 
perhaps  to  find  him  changed  !  So  changed  in  that  long  lapse  of  ttme,  that  it 
would  seem  as  if  the  old  Pan  ell  was  dead  and  gone,  and  only  a  stranger,  with 
some  trick  of  hi.-  pace,  left  in  his  stead. 

And  amongst  all  the  other  changes  time- had  worked  in  this  dear  cousin,  ii 
might  be  that  the  old,  hopeless  love  had  faded  out,  and  that  another  image  had 
replaced  Milliceut's  own  pale  face  in  Darrell  Markham's  heart.  He  was  still  un- 
married ;  she  knew  that  by  his  letters  to  Sarah  Pecker,  which  always  came  at 
intervals  of  about  three  months,  to  tell  of  his  own  whereabouts,  and  to  ask  for 
tidings  of  Compton.  Perhaps  it  was  his  poverty  that  had  kept  him  so  long  8 
bachelor  !  A  sudden  crimson  rushed  to  Mrs.  Duke's  face  as  she  thought  of  this 
If  this  were  indeed  so,  would  it  be  more  than  cousinly — would  it  be  more  than 
her  duty  to  share  her  own  ample  fortune  with  her  owu  relative,  and  to  bid  him 
marry  the  woman  of  his  choice  and  be  happy  ? 

She  made  a  picture  of  herself,  with  her  pale  face  and  mourning  gown,  bestowing 
her  blessings  and  half  of  her  estate  upon  Darrell  and  some  defiant  brunette  beaut) 
with  glowing  checks  and  lustrous  eyes  altogether  unlike  her  own.  She  acted  over 
the  imaginary  scene,  and  composed  a  pretty  self-abnegating,  appropriate  little 
speech  with  which  to  address  the  happy  bride  and  bridegroom.  It  was  so  affect- 
ing a  picture,  that  Mrs.  Duke  wept  quietly  for  live  minutes,  with  her  face  turned 
towards  the  opposite  window  to  that  out  of  which  Mrs.  Pecker  was  looking. 

The  tears  were  still   in   her   eyes  when   the  coach   stopped   before  the  big  town 
mansion  of  Parrcll   Markham's  "Scottish   patron.     That  old  feeling  at  lie;-  : 
x  emed  I  •  stop  its  beating,  as  the  coachmanV  loud  rap 


71  DARRELL  MARKHAM  ;  OR 

brazen  knocker.  The  blinds  were  all  do*wn,  and  wisps  of  loose  straw  lay  about 
the  doorsteps. 

'  My  lord  is  out  of  town,  perhaps,'  said  Mrs.  Pecker,  l  and  Mr.  Darrell  with 
him.     Oh,  Miss  Milly,  if  we  have  had  our  journey  for  nothing  !' 

Millicent  Duke  had  no  power  to  reply ;  the  question  was  doubtful  now  then. 
She  was  prepared  for  sudden  death,  but  not  for  slow  torture.  For  seven  years 
she  had  lived  in  cornparative'eontentment  without  seeing  Darrell  Markham ;  she 
felt  now  that  she  could  scarcely  exist  seven  minutes  without  looking  at  tha*  fa- 
miliar face.        ' 

An  old  woman  opened  the  door.  My  lord  was  evidently  out  of  town.  Mrs. 
Pecker  directed  the  coachman  to  inquire  for  Mr.  Darrell  Markham.  The  great 
carved  doorway,  the  iron  extinguishers  upon  the  railings,  the  attenuated  iron 
lamp  frame,  the  figure  of  the  old  woman  standing  on  the  threshold,  all  reeled  before 
Millicent's  eyes,  and  she  did  not  hear  a  word  that  was  said.  She  only  knew  that 
the  coach  door  was  opened,  and  that  Sarah  Pecker  told  her  to  alight ;  that  she 
tottered  up  the  steps,  across  the  threshold  of  the  door,  and  into  .a  noble  stone- 
fiagged  hall,  at  the  end  of  which  a  feeble  handful  of  burning  coals  struggled  for 
life  in  a  grate  wide  enough  to  have  held  well  nigh  half  a  ton. 

A  stout  gentleman  wrapped  to  the  chin  in  a  furred  coat,  and  wearing  high- 
leather  boots,  bespattered  with  mud  and  snow,  was  standing  against  this  fire,  with 
his  back  to  Millicent,  reading  a  letter.  His  hat,  gloves,  riding-whip,  and  half  a 
dozen  unopened 'letters  lay  on  a  table  near  him. 

Millicent  Duke  only  saw  a  blurred  and  indistinct  figure  of  a  map  who  seemed 
one  wavy  mass  of  coat  and  boots ;  and  a  fire  that  resolved  itself  into  one  glaring 
round,  like  the  red  eye  of  a  demon.  Sarah  Pecker  had  not  alighted  from  the 
coach;  the  old  woman  stood  cmtsying  to  Mrs.  Duke,  and  pointing  to  the  gentle- 
man by  the  fire-place.  Millicent  had  a  confused  idea  that  she  was  to  ask  this 
gentleman  to.  conduct  her  to  Darrell  Markham.  His  head  was  bent  over  the  letter, 
which  he  could  scarcely  decipher  in  the  dim  light  from  the  dirty  window-panes 
and  the  straggling  fire.     Millicent  w;.^  almost  afraid  to  disturb  him. 

While  she  stood  for  a  moment  deliberating  how  she  might  best  address  him,  he 
crumpled  the  letter  into  his  pocket,  and  turning  suddenly,  stood  face  to  face  with 
her. 

The  stout  gentleman  was  Darrell  Markham. 


CHAPTER  XIV.— Ringwood's  Legacy. 

.  Of  all  the  changes  Millicent  had  ever  dreamed  of,  none  had  come  about.  But 
this  change,  of  which  she  had  never  dreamed,  had  certainly  come  to  pass.  Dar- 
rell Markham  had  grown  stouter  within  the  seven  years ;  not  unbecomingly  so,  of 
course,  but  he  had  changed  from  a  stripling  into  a  stalwart,  broad-chested,  soldier- 
ly-looking fellow,  whose  very  presence  inspired  a  feeling  of  safety  in  Millicent's 
helpless  nature.  He  clasped  his  poor  little  shivering  cousin  to  his  breast,  and 
covered  her  cold  forehead  with  kisses. 

Yet  I  doubt  if  even  George  Duke's  handsome,  sinister  face  could  have  peeped 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE.  75 

in  at  the  hall- open  hall  door  at  that  very  moment,  whether  the  Captain  of  the 
\'nltar(  would  have  had  just  cause  for  either  auger  or  alarm. 

It  was  a  brotherly  embrace  which  drew  Milliceut's  slender  form  to  that  manly 
heart — it  was  a  brother's  protecting  affection  that  showered  kisses  thick  and  fast 
upon  Iter  blushing  face,  and  spoiled  the  pretty  mourning  hat  which  Mrs  Pecker 
had  been  at  such  pains  to  triuv9 

Poor  Sally  Pecker !  if  she  could  only  have  known  how  little  DarreH  Markhatn 
saw  of  the  crape  ruches  and  streamers,  the  jet  necklace  and  bracelets,  and  all  the 
little  coquetries  she  had  prepared  for  his  admiration.  lie  only  saw  the  soft  blue 
yes,  with  the  old  pleading  look  he  remembered  long  ago  when  Ringwood  and  he 
were  at  high  words  at  Compton  Hall,  and  the  anxious,  fearful  girl  would  creep 
between  them  to  make  peace.  Millicent's  eyes  were  tearless  now,  but  such  a  mist 
was  before  Darrell's  sight,  that  he  could  scarcely  distinguish  the  happy  face  look- 
ing up  at  him  from  under  the  crushed  mourning  hat.' 

4  Bless  you,  my  darling,  bless  you  !'  he  said  again  and  again,  seeming  indeed  to 
have  little  more  to  say  than  this  ;  but  a  great  deal  of  inarticulate  language  in  the 
way  of  kisses  to  supply  his  want  of  words. 

'  Bless  you.  bless  you,  my  own  precious  Milly  !' 

Nor  did  Mrs.  George  Puke  do  very  much  on  this  occasion  to  establish  a  charac- 
ter for  eloquence,  for  after  a  great  deal  of  blushing  and  trembling,  she  could  only 
look  shyly  up  at  her  cousin,  and  say — 

'  Why,  Darrellj  how  stout  you  havo  grown  !' 

A  'moment  before,  Mr.  Markham  had  a  very  great  inclination  to  cry,  but  as 
these  simple,  faltering  words  dropped  from  his  cousin's  lips,  he  laughed"aloud,  and 

opening  a  door  near  them,  led  her  into  my  Lord  C \s  library,  where  the  dust 

lay  thick  upon  furniture  and  books,  and  the  oaken  window  shutters  were  only 
half  open. 

'My  Milliccnt,'  he  said,  'my  dearest  girl!  what  a  happy  chance  that  I  should 
have  ridden,  into  town  on  this  snowy  morning  to  fetch  some  letters  of  too  great 
importance  to  be  trusted  to  an  ordinary  messenger.  1  have  spent  Christmas  with 
my  lord  in  Buckinghamshire,  and  it  was  but  an  accident  my  coming  here  to-day.' 

He  took  Mrs.  Pecker's  hat  from  Millicent's  head,  and  cast  it  ignomiuiously  on 
the  floor.  Then  smoothing  his  cousin's  pale,  golden  ringlets  With  gentle,  caressing 
hands,  he  looked  long  and  earnestly  at  her  face. 

''My  Milly,'  he  said,  'all  these  weary  years  have  not  made  an  hour's  change 
ou !' 

'  And  in  you,  Parrell '  i 

■  In  me'  why,  I  am  stouter,  you  say,  Milly.' 

•  Yes,  yes.  a  little  stouter;  but  I  don't  mean  that!'  She  hesitated,  and  stood 
twisting  one  of  the  buttons  of  his  furred  coat  iu  her  slender  lingers,  her  bead 
bent,  and  the  dim  light  from  the  half-opened  shutters  slanting  upon  the  shadowy 
_  >ld  tinges  in  her  hair.  Innocent  and  confiding,  a  pale  saint  crOWJied  with  a  pale 
aureole,  and  looking  too  celestial  a  creature  for  foggy  London  and^St.  Ji 
square. 

•  What  then,  Millicent?'  -aid  Parrell. 

( I  mean  that  you  must  be  changed  in  other  things!  'ban-''!  ii  !     1 

have  dawdled  away  my  quiet  lite  at  Compton,  with  no  event  to  break  these  seven 

d  have  lived  in  the  world,  Parrell. 


76  DARRELL  MARKHAM;.  OR 

the  gay  and  great  world,  where,  as  I  have  always  read,  all  is  action,  and  the  suf- 
ferings or  pleasures  of  a  lifetime  are  often  crowded  into  a  few  brief  months.  You 
must  have  seen  so  many  changes  that  you  must  be  changed  yourself,  f  fancy 
that  wc  country  people  fall  into  the  fashion  of  imitating  the  nature  about  us*  Our 
souls  copy  the  slow  growth  of  tho  trees  that  shelters,  and  our  hearts  are  change- 
less as  the  quiet  rivers  that  flow  past  our  houses.  That  must  be  the  reason  that 
we  change  so  little ;  but  you,  in  this  busy,  turbulent  London,  you,  who  must  have 
made  so  many  acquaintance,  so  many  friends — noble  and  brilliant  men — amiable 
and  beautiful  women ' 

As  in  a  lady's  letter  a  few  brief  words  in  the  postcript  generally  contain  the 
whole  gist  of  the  epistle,  so  perhaps  in  this  long  speech  of  Mrs.  George  Duke's 
the  drift  of  the  exordium  lay  in  the  very  last  sentence. 

At  any  -rate  it  was  to  this  sentence  that  Darrell  Markham  replied — ■ 

'  The  loveliest  woman  in  all  London  has  had  little  charm  for  me,  Millicent ; 
there  is  but  one  face  in  all  the  world  that  Darrell  Markham  ever  cared  to  look 
upon,  and  that  he  sees  to-day  for  the  first  time  after  seven  years.' 

« Darrell,  Darrell !' 

The  joy,  welling  up  to  her  heart,  shone  out  from  under  the  shelter  of  her 
drooping  lashes.  He  was  unchanged  then,  and  there  was  no  glorious  dark  beauty 
to  claim  her  old  lover.  She  was  a  niamed  woman  herself,  and  George  Duke 
might  return  to-morrow ;  but  it  seemed  happiness  enough  to  know  that  she  was 
not  to  hear  Darrell  Markham's  wedding-bells  yet  awhile. 
*•      '  I  was  coining  to  Compton  at  the  beginning  of  next  month,  to  see  you,  Milly:' 

1  To  see  me  V 

'  Yes  to  remind  you  of  an'  old  promise,  broken  once,  but  not  forgotten.  To 
-claim  you  as  my  wife.' 

'  Me,  Darrell — a  married  woman  !' 

'  A  married  woman  !'  he  cried,  passionately;  '  no,  Millicent,  a  widow  by  every 
evidence  of  common  sense.  Free  to  marry  by  the  law  of  the  land.  But  tell  me. 
dearest,  what  brought  you  to  town.' 

<  This,  Darrell.' 

She  took  her  dead  brother's  letter  from  her  pocket,  and  gave  it  tojiirn. 
•  '  Three  nights  before  his  death,  my  poor  brother  Ringwood  wrote  this,'  she 
said,  '  and  at  the  same  time  bade  me  put  it  with  my  own  hand  into  yours.  I  hope, 
Darrell,  it  contains  some  legacy,  even  though  it  were  to  set  aside  Ring-wood's  will, 
and  leave  you  the  best  part  of  the  fortune.  It  is  more  fitting  that  you  should  be 
the  owner  of  it  than  I.' 

Darrell  Markham  stood  with  the  letter  in  his  hand,  looking  thoughtfully  at  the 
superscription. 

Yes,  there  it  was,  the  sprawling,  straggling  penmanship  which  he  had  so  often 
laughed  at;  the  ill-shaped  letters  and  the  ill-spelt  words,  all  were  there;  but  the 
hand  was  cold  that  had  held  the  pen,  and  the  sanctity  of  death  was  about  poor 
Ringwood's  letter,  and  changed  the  scrawl  into  a  holy  relic. 

'  He  wrote  to  me  before  he  died  Millicent  ?  He  forgot  all  our  old  quarrels, 
then  V 

'  Yes,  he  spoke  of  you  most  tenderly.  You  will  find  loving  words  in  the  .poor 
boy's  letter,  I  know.  Darrell,  and  I  hope  some  mention  of  a  legacy !' 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE.  77 

'  1  have  neither  need  nor  wish  for  that.  Milly ;  but  I  am  happy  that  Ringwood 
remembered  me  kindly  upon  his  death -bed. 

Darrell  Markham  broke  the  seal,  and  read  the  brief  epistle.  As  he  did  so,  a 
joyous  light  broke  suddenly  out  upou  his  handsome  face. 

'  Millicent,  Millicent,'  he  said,  (  do  you  know  the  contents  of  this  letter  V 

1  Not  one  word,  Darrcll.' 

'  It  was  noble  and  generous  of  my  cousin  Ringwood  to  write  this  to  me.  Oh, 
Milly,  Milly,  he  has  left  me  the  most  precious  legacy  that  ever  mortal  mau 
received  from  the  will  of  another.' 

'lI  am  so  glad  of  that,  Darrcll.  GLmI,  ay,  more  than  glad,  if  he  has  left  you 
every  acre  of  the  Compton  estate.  My  little  cottage  fs  big  enough  for  me;  and 
I  should  be  so  happy  to  see  you  master  of  the  old  Hall.' 

'  But  it  is  not  the  Compton  estate,  Milly  darling.  The  legacy  is  something 
dearer  and  more  valuable  than  all  the  lands  and  houses  in  merry  England/ 

'  Not  the  Compton  estate  !' 

<  No — the  legacy  is you.' 

He  caught  her  in  his  arms,  and  clasped  her  once  more  to  his  heart.  This  time 
it  was  scarcely  so  brotherly  an  embrace,  and  this  time,  had  the  Captain  of  the 
Vulture  been  peeping  in  at  the  library  door,  he  might  have  felt  himself  called 
upon  to  interfere. 

'  Darrcll,  Darrell,  what  do  you  mean  V  cried  Millicent,  as  soon  as  "she  could 
extricate  herself,  with  flushed  cheeks  and   tangled  curls,  from  her  cousin's  arms. 

'  What  do  I  mean  f     Read  poor  Ringwood's  letter,  Milly.' 

Mrs.  Greorge  Duke  opened  her  large  blue  eyes  in  an  innocent  stare  of  wonder 
as  she  took  the  foolscap  sheet  from  her  cousin's  hand.  In  sober  earnest  she  begat) 
very  much  to  fear  that  Darrell   Markham  had  become  suddenly  distracted.  « 

'"Read,  Milly,  read  !' 

Bespattered  with  unsightly  blots,  smudges,  and  erasures,  and  feeble,  half 
formed  characters,  this  poor  scrawl,  written  by  the  weak  hanfl  of  the  sick  man. 
was  no  such  easy  matter  to  decipher;  but  to  the  eye  of  Millicent  Duke  every 
syllable  seemed  burnt  upon  the  paper  in  letters  of  fire. 

It  was  thus  that  poor  Ringwood  had  written  : 

'Cousen  Darrel, 

•  When  you  gett  this,  Capten  Duk  will  hav  bin  away  sevin  years.  I  cannot 
lieve  you  a  legasy,  but  1  lieve  you  my  sister,  Mily,  who  after  my  deth  will  be  a 
ritch  woman,  for  your  tru  and  lovyng  wife.  Forgett  all  past  ill  blud  betwixt 
us,  and  cherish  her  for  the  sake  of  ftlNGWOOD  Makkjiam.' 

With  her  pale  face  dyed  unnaturally  red  with  crimson  Mushes,  and  her  blue 
-yes  bent  upon  the. Turkey  carpet  in  my  lord's  library,  Mrs.  Duke  stood,  holding 
her  brother's  letter  in  her  trembling  hands. 

Darrell  Markham  dropped  on  his  knees  at  her  feet. 

'  You  cannot  refuse  me  now,  my  Millicent,'  he  said  ;  '  for  even  if  you  could  find 
the  heart  to  be  so  cruel,  I  would  not  take  the  harsh  word,  no,  from  those  beloved 
lips  You  are  mine,  Mrs.  Duke — mine,  to  have  and  to  hold.  The  legacy  left  me 
.by  my  poor  cousin.' 

1  Am  I  free  to  wed,  Darrell  V  she  faltered,  '  am  I  free  V 


78 


DARRELL  MARXcfAiv    |  >B 


'As  free  as  you  were,  Millicent,' before  ever  the  shadow  of  George  Duke 
darkened  your  father's  door.'  #  • 

AVhile  Darrell  Markham  was  still  upon  his  knees  on  my  lord's  Turkey  carpet, 
and  while  Mrs.  Millicent  Duke  was  still  looking  down  at  him  with  a  glance  in 
which  love,  terror  and  perplexity  had  equal  share,  the  library  door  was  burst 
open,  and  Mrs.  Sarah  Pecker  dashed  in  upon  the  unconscious  pair. 

'  So,  Mrs.  George  Duke,  and  and  Mr.  Darrell  Markham,'  she  said,  '  this  i^ 
mighty  pretty  treatment  upon  my  first  visit  to  Londdfc  !  Here  have  1  been  sit- 
ting in  that  blessed  coach  for  the  space  of  au  hour  by  your  town  clocks,  and 
neither  of  you  have  had  so  much  civility^as  to  ask  me  to  come  in  and  warm  my 
fingers'  ends  at  your  wretched  fires.' 

Darrell  Markham  had  risen  from  his  knees  on  the  advent  of  Mrs.  Pecker,  and 
it  is  to  be  recorded  that  the  discreet  Sally  had  evinced  no  surprise  whatever  at  the 
abnormal  attitude  in  which  she  had  discovered  Millicent's  cousin  ;  and  further- 
more that,  although  expressing  much  indignation  at  the  treatment  she  liad 
received,  Sarah  appeared  altogether  in  very  high  spirits. 

"  You've  been  rather  a  long  time  in  giving  Master  Darrell  the  letter,  31  iss 
Milly,'  she  said  slyly. 

{  That  wont  surprise  you,  Sally,  when  you  hear  the  contents  of  the  letter,'  an- 
swered Darrell;  and  then  planting  Mrs.  Pecker  in  a  high-backed  leather-covered 
chair  by  the  fire-place,  he  told  her  the  whole  story  of  RingwoOd's  epistle. 

Heaven  knows  if  Millicent  Duke  would  ever  ha-ve  freely  given  her  consent  to 
the  step  which  appeared  to  her  such  a  desperate  one;  but  between  Darrell  Mark- 
ham and  Sarah  Pecker  she  was  utterly  powerless,  and  when  her  cousin  handed 
her  back  to  the  coach  that  had  been  so  long  in  waiting,  she  had  promised  to 
become  his  wedded  wife  before  noon  on  the  following  day. 

'  I  will  make  all  arrangements  for  the  ceremony,  dearest,'  Darnell  said,  as  he 
lingered  at  the  c«^ich  door,  loth  to  bid  his  cousin  good-bye ;  (  and  that  done,  s 
must  ride  into  Buckinghamshire  with  my  lord's  letters,  and  wish  him  farewell  for 
a  time.  1  will  breakfast  with  you  to-morrow  morning  at  your  inn,  and  escort  you 
and  Sally  to  the  church.     Good-bye,  darling,  God  bless  you  !' 

The  blue-nosed  coachman  smacked  his  whip,  and  the  coach  drove  away,  leaving 
Darrell  Markham  standing  on  the  door-step  looking  after  his  cousin. 

'Oh,  Sally,  Sally,  what  "have  I  done  !'  cried  Millicent,  as  soon  as  the  coach  had 
left  St.  James's  square. 

'What  have  you' done,  Miss  Millicent!'  exclaimed  Mrs.  Pecker,  'why  only 
what  was  right  and  proper,  and  according  to  your  brother's  wishes.  You  wouldn't 
have  goue  against  them,  miss,  would  you,  knowing  what  a  wickedness  it  is  t  i 
thwart  those  that  are  dead  and  gone  V  ejaculated  Sarah,  with  pious  horror. 

For  the  rest  of  the  day  Millicent  Duke  was  as  one  in  a  dream.  She  seemed 
to  lose  all  power  of  volition,  and  to  submit  quietly  to  be  carried  hither  and  thither 
at  the  will  of  the  stout  Sarah  Pecker.  As  for  the  worthy  mistress  of  the  Black 
Bear,  this  suddenly-devised  wedding  between  =  the  two  young  people,  whom  she 
had  knowu  as  little  children,  was  so  deep  a  delight  to  her  that  she  could  scarcely 
contain  herself  and  her  importance  within  the  limits  of  a  hired  coach. 

'  Shall  I  bid  the  mau  to  stop  at  a  silk-mercer's,  Miss  Milly  ?'  she  ask?/),  as  the 
vchieb  drove  Holborn-wurds. 

'  What  for,  Sally  V 


THi    .'•.'>         i      rHE  VTJLT1  RE  ■"       79 

'  For  you  to  choose  a  wedding-dress,  miss.  You'll  neve:  be  married  iu 
mourning  ?' 

'Why  not,  Sally?  Do  you  think  I  mourn  less  for  my  brother  because  1  am 
going  to  marry  Darrell  Markham  ?  It  would  be  paying  ill  respect  to  his  mem- 
ory to  cast  off  my  black  clothes  before  he  has  been  three  mouths  iu  his  grave." 

'  But  for  to-morrow,  Miss  Millicent  ?  Think  what  a  bad  omen  it  would  be  to 
wear  black  ou  your  wedding-day."  # 

Mrs.  Duke  smiled  gravely.  '  If  it  please  Heaven  to  bless  my  marriage,  Sally,' 
she  said.  '  I  do  not  thiuk  the  colour  of  my  dress  would  come  between  me  and 
Providence.'  % 

Sarah  Pecker  shoek 'her  keacT ominously.  'There's  such  tilings  as  tempting 
Providence  and  flying  in  the  face  of  good  fortune,  Miss  Milly,'  she  said,  aud 
without  waiting  for  leave  from  Millicent,  she  ordered  the  coachman  to  stop  at  a 
mercer's  on  Holborn  hill. 

Mrs.  Duke  did  not  oppose  her  protectress,  but  when  the  shopman  brought  his 
rolls  of  glistening  silks  and  brocade,  and  castHhem  in  voluminous  folds  upon  the 
narrow  counter,  Millicent  took  care  to  choose  a  pale  lavender-coloured  fabric, 
arabesqued  with  flowers  worked  iu  black  floss  silk. 

.'  YoU  seem  determined  to  bring  bad  luck  upon  your  wedding,  Mrs.  Duke,' 
Sarah  said,  sharply,  as  Millicent  made  this  sombre  choice.  '  Who  ever  heard  of 
black  roses  and  lilies  V 

■  But  Millicent  was  determined,  and  they  drove  back  to  the  big  gloomy  hostlerj 
ou  Snow  hill,  where  Mrs.  Pecker  seated  herself  to  her  task  of  making  the  wedding- 
dress. 


CHAPTER  XV.— Millicent's  Wedding 

Very  little  breakfast  Was  eaten  the  next  morning  by  either  of* the  trio  as 
in  the  dark  sitting-room  at  the  inn  ou  Suow  hill.  To-day  there  was  neither  rain 
nor  sleet  falling  from  the  leaden  sky  ;  but  that  blackness  was  in  the  air  and  in  the 
heavens  that  tells  the  coming  of  a  tremendous  fall  of  suow.  The  mud  of  the  day 
before  had  frozen  iu  the  gutters,  and  the  pavements  were  hard  and  dry  in  the 
bitter  frosty  morning — so  bitter  a  morning  that  Mrs.  Pecker's  numbed  fingCTS 
could  scareely  adjust  the  brocade  wedding-dress,  which  she  had  set  up  half  the 
night  to  prepare.  A  cheerless,  black,  and  hopeless  frost — black  alike  upon  the 
broad  moor  arouud  Compton,  aud  in  the  dark  London  streets,  where  the  breath  of 
half-frozen  foot -passengers  aud  shivering  horses,  made  a  perpetual  fog\  A  dismal 
wedding  morniug,  this,  for  the  secoud  nuptials  01  Millicent  Puke. 

Sally  Pecker  was   the  only  membe*r  of  the  little  party  who  took  any  especial 
notice  of  the  weather.     DarreH's  cheeks  glowed  with  the  crimson  lires  of  love  and 
joy,  and  if  Millicent  trembled  and  grew  pale,  she  knew  not  whether  it  was  from 
the  bitter  cold  without,  or  that  cold  shudder  at  her  heart  within,  over  which 
hail  no  control. 

The  coach-  was  waiting  in  the  iuu-yard  below,  aud  Mrs.  Pecker  was  putting  the 
last  finishing  touches  to  the  festooned  bunches  of-  Millieent's  brocaded  gown,  and 
the  soft  folds  of  the  quilted  petticoat  beneath,  when  this  feeling  broke  forth  into 


g,)  DARRELL  MARKHAM ;  OR  ''•. 

words ;  and  Mrs.  George  Duke,  falling  on  her  knees  at  DarreH's  feet,  lifted  up  "* 
her  clasped  hands  and  appealed  to  him  thus  : — 

•  Oh,  Darrell,  Darrell,  I  feel  as  if  this  was  a  wicked  thing  that*  we  are  going  to 
do  !  What  evidence  have  I  that  George  Duke  is  dead?  and  what  right  have  I  to 
give  my  hand  to  you,  not  knowing  whether  it  may  not  still  belong  to  another  ? 
Delay  this  marriage.  Wait,  wait,  and  more  certain  news  may  reach  us;  for  some- 
thing tells  me  that  we  have  no  justification  for  the  vows  we-are  going  to  take  to-day.' 

She  spoke  with  such  a  solemn  fervor,  with  such  an  earnestness  in  every  word, 
with  a  light  that  seemed  almost  the  radiance  of  inspiration  shining  in  her  blue 
eyes,  that  Darrell  Markham  would  have  been  led  -to  listen  to  her  almost  as  seriously . 
as  she  had  spoken,  but  for  the  interference  of  jNJrs.  Sarah  Pecker.  That  aggrieved 
matron,  however,  showering  forth  a  whole  volley  of  exclamations,  such,  as  'stuff,' 
and  'nonsense,  child,'  and  'who  ever  heard  such  a  pother  about  nothing,'  and 
'after  sitting  at  work  at  the  wedding  dress  till  my  fingers  froze  upon  my  hands,' 
hustled  Millicent  and  Darrell  down  the  wide  inn  staircase,  and  into  the  coach, 
before  either  of  them  had. time  to  remonstrate. 

St.  Bride's  church  had  been  Selected  by  Darrell  for  the  performance  of  the 
ceremony,  and  on  the  way  thither  Mrs.  Pecker  devoted  herself  to  lamentations  on 
the  performance  of  this  London  wedding. 

'  Not  so  much  as  a  bell  a-ringing,'  she  said ;  ■  and  if  it  had  been  at  Compton 
they'd  have  made  the  old  steeple  rock  again,  to  do  honor  to  the  squise's  daughter.' 

It  was  a  brief  drive  from  Snow  hill  to  St.  Bride's  church,  in  Fleet  street.  The 
broad  stone  flags  before  the  old  building  were  slippery  with  frozen  sleet  and  mud, 
and  Darrell  had  to  support  his  cousin's  steps,  half  carrying  her  from  the  coach  to 
the  church  door.  The  solemn  aisles  were  dark  in  the  wintry  morning;  and  Ro- 
meo, breaking  into  the  tomb  of  the  Capulets,  could  scarcely  have  found  himself 
in  a  gloomier  edifice  than  that  which  Darrell  entered  with  his  shivering  bride. 

Mrs.  Sarah  Pecker  lingered  behind  to  give  some  instructions  to  the  coachman, 
having  done  which,  she  was  about  to  follow  the  young  people,  when  she  was  vio- 
lently jostled  by  a  stout  porter,  laden  with  parcels,  who  ran  against  her,  and  nearly 
knocked  her  down. 

Indeed,  the  pavement  being  slippery,  it  is  a  question  whether  the  dignified 
hostess  of  the  Black  Bear  would  not  have  entirely  lost  her  footing,  but  for  the 
friendly  interposition  of  a  muscular,  though  slender  arm,  in  a  claret-colored  velvet 
coat-sleeve,  which  was  thrust  out  to  save  her,  while  rather  an  affected  and  foppish 
voice  drawled  a  reproof  to  the  porter. 

Poor  Sally  Pecker,  saved  from  the  collision,  was  once  more  like  to  fall  at  the 
sound  of  this  effeminate  voice,  for  it  was  the  very  same  which  she  had  heard  a 
month  before  in  her  best  room  at  the  Black  Bear,  and  the  arm  which  had  saved 
her  was  that  of  Sir  Lovel  Mortimer,  the  west-CQuntry  baronet 

Mrs.  Sarah  would  scarcely  have  recognised  him  had  she  not  heard  his  voice, 
for  he  was  wrapped  in  great  woollen  mufflers,  that  half  buried  the  lower  part  of 
his  face,  and  instead  of  the  flowing  flaxen  wig  he  usually  affected,  wore  a  brown 
George,  which  was  by  no  means  so  becoming;  but  under  his  slouched  beaver  hat, 
and  above  the  many  folds  of  his  woollen  mufflers,  shone  the  restless  black  eyes 
which,  once  seen,  were  not  easily  to  be  forgotten. 

'  Sir  Lovel  Mortimer  '.'  exclaimed  Mrs.  Pecker,  clasping  her  broad  hands  'about 
the  young  man's  arm,  and  staring  at  him  as  one  aghast. 


THE  CAPTAIN  0?  THE  VULTURE.  g]_ 

'  Hush,  my  good  soul ;  you've  no  need  to  be  so  ready  with  my  name.  Why. 
what  ails  the  woman  V  he  said,  aUSarah  still  stood,  staring  at  her  deliverer's  face 
with  much  that  uneasy,  bewildered,  wondering  expression  with  which  she  had 
regarded  him  on  his  visit  to  Compton. 

''  Oh,  sir,  forgive  a  poor  childless  woman  for  looking  over  hard  at  you.  IvV 
never  been  able  to  get  your  honor's  face  out  of  my  head  since  last  Christmas  night.' 

Captain  Fanny  laughed  gayly. 

'  I'm  used  to  makiirg  an  impression  on  the  fair  sex,,'  he  said ;  '  and  there  are 
many  who  have  taken  care  to  get  the  pattern  of  my  face  by  heart  before  this. 
Why,  strike  me  blind,  if  it  is  not  our  worthy  hostess  of  the  Cumbrian  village, 
where  we  eat  such  a  glorious  Christmas  diuuer.  Now,  what  in  the  name  of  ^ill 
that's  wonderful  has  brought  you  to  Loudon,  ma'am  ?' 

'  A  wedding,  your  honor,' 

'  A  wedding  ! — your  own  of  course.     Then  I'm  just  in  time  to  salute  the  bride.5 

1  The  wedding  of  Mrs.  George  Duke  with  her  first  cousiu,  Mr.  Darrell  Mark- 
ham.'  • 

'  Mrs.  George  Duke,  the  widow,  whose  husband  is  away  at  sea  V 

1  The  same,  sir.' 

Captain  Fanny  pursed  up  his  lips  and  gave  a  low  but  prolonged 'whistle.     '  So. 
so,  Mrs  Pecker,  that  is  the  business  that  has  brought  you  all  the  way  from  Cum- 
berland to  Fleet  street.     Pray  present  my  best  compliments  to  the  bride  and   ■ 
bridegroom,  and  good-day  to  you.' 

He  bowed  gallantly  to  the  innkeeper's  wife,  and,  hurrying  off,  his  slender  figure 
was  soon  lost  amidst  the  crowd  of  pedestrians. 

A  shivering  parson  in  a  tumbled  surplice  read  the  marriage  service,  and  a  grim 
beadle  gave  Millicent  to  'this  man,'  in  consideration  of  a  crown-piece  whieh  he- 
had  himself  received.  The  trembling  girl  could  not  but  "lance  behind  her  as  the 
clergyman  read  that  preliminary  passage  which  called  on  any  one  knowing  any 
just  cause  or  impediment  why  these  two  persons  should  not  be  joined  together,  to 
come  forward  and  declare  the  same. 

One  of  the  ponderous  doors  of  the  church  was  ajar,  and  a  biting,  frozen  wind 
Mew  in  from  the  courts  and  passages  in  whose  neighborhood  John  Miltou  had 
lived  so  long  ;  but  there  was  no  Captain  George  Duke  lurking  in  the  shadow  of 
the  doorway,  or  hiding  behind  a  pillar,  ready  to  come  forth  and  protest  against 
the  mai  riage. 

Had  the  Captain  of  the  Vulture  been  in  waiting  for  this  purpose,  he  must  have 
lost  uo  time  in  carrying  it  into  effect;  for  the  shivering  parson  gave  brief  oppor- 
tunity for  interference,  andj-attled  through  the  solemn  service  at  such  a  rate  that 
Darrell  and  Millicent  were  man  and  wife  before  .Mrs.  Pecker  had  recovered  from 
the  surprise  of  her  unexpected  encounter  with  Captain  Fanny. 

The  snow  was  falling  in  real  earnest  when  Millicent,  Darrell  and  Sarah  took 
their  seats  that  night  in  the  comfortable  inferior  of  the  York  mail,  and  the  chilly 
winter  daws  broke  next  morning  upon  whitened  fields  and  hedges,  and  far-off 
distances  and  hill-tops  that  shoue  out  white  against  the  blackness  of  the  sky.  All 
the  air  seemed  thick  with  snow-flakes  throughout  that  long  homeward  journey ; 
but  Darrell  and  Millicent  might  have  been  travelling  through  an  atmosphere  of 
melted  sapphires  and  under  a  cloudless  Italian  heaven,  for  auj;ht  they  kuew  to 
the  contrary  ;  f<$r  the  sometime  wil  ;"  George  Duke  had  forgotten  all 

6 


OQ  DARRELL  MARKHAM  ;  OR 

♦ 

old  sorrows  in  the  one  absorbing  thought  that  she  and  Darrell  were  to  go  hence- 
forth and  foraver  side  by  side  in  life's  journey.*    This  being  so,  it  mattered  little, 
whether  they  went  northward  through  the  bleak  January  weather,  or  travelled 
some  rose-bestrewn  path  under  the  most  cerulian  skies  that  were  ever  painted  on  . 
a  fire-screen  or  a  tea-board. 

They  reached  York  on  the  third  day  from  that  of  the  wedding ;  and  here  it 
was  decided  that  they  should  finish  the  journey  in  a  post-chaise,  instead  of  waiting 
for  the  lumbering  branch  coach  that  travelled  between  York? and  Compton. 

It  was  twilight  when  the  four  horses  of  the  last  relay  swept  across  the  white 
moorland  .and  dashed  into  the-  narrow  Compton  high  street.  Past  the  forge  and 
the  little  cottage  Millicent  had  lived  in  so  long — past  the. village  shop,  the  one 
great  emporium  where  all  the  requirements  of  Compton  civilization  were  to  be  pur- 
chased— past  groups  of  idle  children,  who  whooped  andjiallooed  at  the  post-chaise 
for  no  special  reason,  but  from  a  vague  conviction  that  any  persons  travelling  in 
such  a  vehicle  must  be  necessarily  magnates  of  the  land,  and  bent  upon  some  er- 
rand of  festivity  and  rejoicing — past  every  familiar  object  in  the  old  place,  until 
the  horses  drew  up  with  a  suddenness  that  sent  the  Limbering  chaise  rocking 
from  side  to  side  before  the  door  of  the  Black  Bear,  and  under  the  windows  of 
that  very  room  in  which  Darrell  Markham  had  lain  so  long  a  weary  invalid. 

The  reason  of  this  arrangement  was  that  Mrs.  Pecker,  knowing  the  scanty  ac- 
commodation at  Compton  Hall,  had  sent  on  an  express  from  York  to  bid  Samuel 
prepare  the  best  dinner  that  had  ever  been  eaten  within  the  walls  of  the  Black 
Bear,  to  do  honour  to  Mr.  and  Mrs   Darrell  Markham. 

Tn  her  eagerness  to  ascertain  if  this  message  had  been  acted  upon,  Sarah  was 
the  first  to  spring  from  the  post-chaise,  lcavjng  Darrell  and  Millicent  to  alight  at 
their  leisure. 

She  found  Samuel  upon  the  door-step;  not  the  easy,  self-assured,  brisk  and 
cheerful  Samuel  of  late  years,  but  the  pale-faced,  vacillating,  feeble-minded^  being 
of  the  old  dispensation ;  an  unhappy  creature,  looking  at  his  ponderous  bettev- 
half  with  a  deprecating  glance,  which  seemed  to  say,  •  Don't  be  violent,  Sarah,  it 
is  not  my  fault.' 

But  Mrs.  Pecker  was  in  too  great  a  hurry  to  notice  these  changes.  She  dashed 
past  her  husband  into  the  spacious  hall,  and  glanced  with  considerable  satisfaction 
at  an  open  door,  through  which  was  to  be  seen  the  oak  parlour,  where  on  a  snowy 
table-cloth  glistened  the  well-polished  plate  of  the  Pecker  family,  under  the  light 
of  half  a  dozen  wax  candles. 

1  The  dinner's  ready,  Samuel  ?'  she  said. 

k  Done  to  a  turn,  Sarah/ he  replied,  dolefully.  'A  turkey,  bigger  than  the 
one  we  cooked  at  Christmas;  a  sirloin,  a  pair  of  capons,  boiled,  plum-pudding, 
and  a  dish  of  Christmas  pies.     I  hope,  poor  things,  they  may  enjoy  it!' 

Mrs.  Sarah  Pecker  turned  sharply  round  upon  her  husband,  and  stared  with 
something  of  her  old  glance  of  contempt  at  his  pale,  scared  face. 

•Enjoy  it!' she  said;  'I  should  think  they  would  enjoy  it,  indeed,  after  the 
cold  journey  they've  had  since  breakfast  time  this  morning.  Why,  Samuel 
Pecker,'  she  added,  looking  at  him  more  earnestly  than  before,  •  what  on  earth  is 
the  matter  with  you  ?  When  I  want  you  to  be  most  brisk  and  cheerful,  and  to 
have  everything  bright  and  joyful  about  the  place,  to  do  honour  to  Miss  Milly 
and  her  loving  husband,  my  own  handsome  Master  Darrell.  here  you  are  quajdng 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VCJLTURE. 

and  quavering,  and  seemingly  took  with  one  of  your  old  fits  of  the  doldrums. 
What's  the  matter  with  you,  man  ?  and  why  don't  you  go  out  and  bring  Mrs. 
Markham  and  hc*r  husband  in,  and  offer  your  congratulations  V 

Samuel  shook  his  head  mournfully.  • 

*  Wait  a  hit,  Sarah,'  he  said,  in  a  voice  scarcely  above  a  whisper;  '  wait  a  bit ; 
it  will  all  come  in  good  time,  and  1  daresay  it's  all  for  the  best;  but  I  was  took 
aback  at  first  by  it,  and  it  threw  me  a  little  backward  with  the  cooking,  for  it 
sceined  as  if  neither  me  nor  Betty  could  put  any  heart  into  the  basting  or  the 
j ravies  afterwards.     It  seemed  hard,  you   know,  Sarah  ;   and  it  seems  hard  still/ 

•What  seems  hard  ? — What!  what!'  cried  Sarah,  some  indistinct  terror  chil- 
ling her  very  blood      '  What  is  it,  Samuel? — have  you  lost  your  speech  ?' 

It  seemed  indeed  for  a  moment  as  if  Mr.  Pecker  had  been   suddenly  depri 
of  the  u/e  of  that  orpin.     lie.  shook  his  head  from  side  to  side,  swallowed  and 
gasped  alternately,  and  then  grasping  Sarah  by  the  arm,  pointed  with  his  div  a- 
gaged   hand   to   another   half-open   door  exactly  opposite  to  that  of  th6  room  in 
which  the  diuner-table  was  laid. 

■  Look  there  !'  he  ejaculated  in  a  hoarse  whisper  close  to  Sarah's  car. 

Kollowiug  the  direction -of  Samuel's  extended  hand,  Mrs.  Pecker  looked  into  a 
room  which  was  generally  devoted  to  the  ordinary  customers  at  the  Bear,  but 
which  on  this  winter's  evening  had  but  one  occupant. 

The  solitary  individual  was  a  man  wearing  a  dark-blue  travel-stained  coat,  jack- 
boots, and  loose  brown  curling  hair,  tied  with  a  ribbon.  His  back  was  turned  to 
'Sarah  and  her  husband,  and  he  was  bending  over  the  sea-coal  fire  with  his  elbows 
on  his  knees  and  his  chin  resting  in  his  hands.  While  Mrs.  Sarah  Pecker  stood 
as  if  transfixed,  staring  at  this  traveller,  Darrell  followed  Milliecnt  into  the  hall, 
and  thence  into  the  oak  parlour,  closing  the  door  behind  him. 

•Oh,  Samuel,  Samuel,  how  shall  T  ever  tell  her?'  exclaimed  Mrs.  Pecker. 


CHAPTEB  XVI. — The  Tinr.u  Appearance  of  tut;  Ghost. 

While  the  wedding  dinner  was  being  eaten  in  the  oak  parlour,  Mrs.  Si  rah 
Pecker  and  her  husband  sat  looking  at  each  other  with  pale,  auxious  faces,  within 
the  sacred  precincts  of  the  bar. 

In  vain  had  Milliecnt  and  Darrell  implored  their  old  and  faithful  friend  to 
down  and  partake  of  the  u;ood  cheer  which  had  been  prepared  at  her  expense. 

•  No,  .Miss  Milly,  dear/  she  said,  '  it  isn't  for  me  to  sit  down  at  the  same  table 

with  Squire  Markham's  daughter — and — and — her  —co'usin.     In  trouble  and  sor- 

Icar — surely  trouble  and  sorrow  seem  to  be  the  lot  of  all  of  us — I'll  be  trio 

to  you  to  the  end  of  life  ;  and  if  T  could  save  your  young  life  from  one  grief,  dear, 

I  think  I'd  throw  away  my  own  to  do  it.' 

She  took  Milliecnt  in  her  stout  arms  as  she  spoke,  and  covered  the  fair  head 
with,  passionate  tears  and  kisses. 

'  Oh,  Miss  Milly,  Miss  Milly,'  she  cried,  '  it  seems  at  if  1  was  strong  enough  to 
saw  you  from  anything  ;  but  I'm  not,  my  dear — I'm  not !' 

It.  was  Millicent's  turn  to  chide  and  con  umt-hearted  Sarah.     Her  own 

•.one  consider;.!  '  he  tedious  homeward  journey. 


84.  DARRELL  MARKHAM;  OP. 

The  strangeness  of  her  new  position  had  in  some  degree  worn  ofiy  and  the  horizon 
seemed  brighter.     She  was  surprised  at  Sarah  Pecker's  unwonted  emotion. 
'  Why,  Sally,  dear !'  she  said,  '  you  seem  quite  out  of  spirits  tnis  evening.' 
'lani  a  little  worn  and  harassed,  Miss  Milly ;  but  rlever  you  mind  that — never 
yew.  think  of  me,  dear;  only  remember  that  if  I  could  save  you  from  grief  and 
trouble,  I'd  give  my  life  to  do  it.' 

With  a  certain  vague  impression  of  unhappiness  caused  by  this  change  in 
Sarah  Pecker,  Millicent  sat  down  with  Darrell  to  the  table  which  Samuel* had 
caused  to  be  loaded  with  such  substantial  fare  as  might  have  served  a  party  of 
stalwart  farmers  at  an  audit  dinner. 

The  traveler  sitting  over  the  fire  in  the  common  parlour  had  been  served  with  a 
bowl  of  rum-punch  ;  but  Mr.  Samuel  Pecker  had  not  waited  upon  him  in  person. 
'  You  haven't  spoke  to  him  then,  Samuel  V  asked  Mrs.  Pecker.  , 

'  No,  Sarah,  no ;  nor  he  to  me.  ,  1  saw  him  a  comin'  in  at  the  door  like  a  evil 
spirit,  as  Fve  half  a  mind  he  is ;  but  I  hadu'.t  the  courage  to  face  him,  so  I  crept 
into  the  passage  quietly  and  listened  against  the  door,  while  he  was  askin  all  sorts 
of  questions  about  Compton  Hall,  and  poor  Miss  Milly,  and  one  thing;  and  another  ; 
and  at  first  I  was  in  hopes  it  was  my  brain  as  was  unsettled,  aud  that  it  was  me 
as  was  in  a  dream  like,  and  not  him  as  was  come  back  ;  and  then  he  ordered  a 
bowl  of  rum-punch,  and  then  I  knew  it  was  him,  for  you  know,  Sarahj  rum-punch 
was  always  his  liquor.' 

'  How  long  was  it  before  we  got  home,  Samuel  ?'  . 
'  When  he  came  V  . 
'  Yes.' 

'  Nigh  upon  an  hour.' 

'  Only  an  hour — only  an  hour,'  groaned  Sarah;  '  if  it  had  pleased  Providence 
to  have  taken  his  life  before  that  hour,  what  a  happy  release  for  them  two  poor 
innopent  creatures  in  yonder  room.' 

'Ah,  what  a  release  indeed,'  echoed  Samuel.  'He's  sittin'  with  his  back  to 
the  door;  if  somebody  could  go  behind  him  sudden  with  a  kitchen  poker,'  added 
the  inn-keeper,  looking  thoughtfully  at  Sarah's  stout  arm;  'but  then,'  he  continued 
reflectively,  '  there M  be  the  body;  and  that  would  be  against  it.  If  you  come  to 
think  of  it,  the  leaving  inconvenience  of  a  murder  is  that  there's  generally  a  body. 
If  it  wasn't  for  bodies,  murders  would  be  uncommon  easy.' 

Sarah  did  not  appear  particularly  struck  by  the  brilliancy  of  her  husband's  dis- 
course ;  she  sat  with  her  hands  clasped  upon  her  knees,  rocking  herself  to  and 
fro,  and  repeating  mournfully — 

'  Oh,  if  it  had  but  pleased  Providence  to  take  him  before  that  hour!  If  it  hud 
but  pleased  Providence  !' ' 

She  remembered  afterwards  that  as  she  said  these  words  there  was  a  feeiiuii'  in 
her  heart  tantamount  to  an  inarticulate  prayer  that  some  species  of  sudden  death 
might  overtake  the  traveler  in  the  common  parlour. 

'Neither  Sarah  nor  her  husband  waited  on  the  newly-married  pair.  The  cham- 
bermaid took  in  the  dishes  and  brought  them  out  again,  almost  untouched.  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Pecker  sat  in  the  bar,  and  the  few  customers  who  came  in  that  night 
were  sent  into  a  little  sitting-room  next  to  the  oak  parlour,  and  on  the  opposite  side 
of  the  hall  to  that  chambar  in  which  the  solitary  traveller  drank  his  rum-punch. 

It  was  striking  eight  by  Compton  church  and  by  the  celebrated  eight-day  oaken 
clock  that  had  belonged  to  Samuel  Pecker's  mother,  when  this  traveller  cam.e  out 


• 


E  CAPTAHI  OF  Ti'E  VULTURE.  85 

of  the  common  parlour,  and  after  paying  his  score  and  wrapping  a  thick  cashmere 
shawl  about  his  neck,  strode  out  into  the  snowy  night. 

He  paid  his  score  to  the  girl  who  had  taken  him  the  punch,  and  he  did  not 
approach  the  bar,  in  the  innermost  recesses  of  which  Sarah  Pecker  sat  with  h'er 
knitting-needles  lying  idle  in  her  lap,  and  her  husband  staring  hopelessly  at  her 
from  the  other  side  of  the  fire-place. 

'  He's  gone  to  the  Hall,  Samuel/  said  Mrs.  Pecker,  as  the  inn-door  closed  with 
:i  sonorous  bang,  and  shut  the  traveller  out  into  the  night.  '  Who's  to  tell  her, 
poor  dear? — who's  to  tell  her?' 

Samuel  shook  his  head  vaguely. 

•  Tf  he  could  lose  himself  in  the  snow  any  way  between  this  and  Compton  Hall,' 
he  said.  '  I've  read  somewhere  in  a  book  of  somewhercs  in  foreign  parts,  where 
there's  travellers  and  dogs,  and  where  they're  always  a  doin'  it,  only  the  dogs  save 
'<'iii ;  besides  which  there  was  the  old  woman  that  left  Winstell  market  late  on  a 
Christmas  night  that  year  as.  we  had  so'many  snow  storms,  and  was  never  heard 
of  again.' 

Mrs.  Pecker  not  appearing  to  take  any  especial  comfort  from  these  rather  ob- 
scure remarks,  Samuel  relapsed  into  melancholy  silence. 

Sarah  sat  in  her  old  position,  rocking  herself  to-and-fro,  only  murmuring  now 
and  then — 

'  Who's  to  tell  her  ?  Poor  innocent  child,  she  was  against  it  *rorn  the  first  to 
the  hist ;  and  it  was  n#e  that 'helped  to  drive  her  to  it.' 

Half  an  hour  after  the  departure  of  the  traveller,  Parrell  Markham  opened  the 
door  of  the  oak  parlour,  and  Millicent  came  out  into  the  hall  equipped  for  walking. 

Her  now  husband's  loving  hands  had  adjusted  the  wrappers  that  were  to  pro- 
tect her  from  the  piercing  cold;  her  husband's  §trong  arm  was  to  support  her  in 
the  homeward  walk,  and  guide  her  footsteps  through  the  snow.  No  more  loneli- 
ness— no  more  patient  endurance  of  a  dull  and  joyous  life.  A  happy  future 
stretched  before  her  like  a  long  flower-begemmed  vista  in  the  woodland  on  a  sunny 
summer's  day. 

Sarah  took  up  her  knitting-needles,  and  made  a  show  of  being  busy,  as  Millicent 
aud  Parrell  came  out  into  the  hall,  but  she  was  not  to  escape  so  easily. 

■  Sally,  dear,  you'll  bid  me  good-night,  wont  you':'   Millicent  said,  tenderly.. 
Mrs   Pecker  came  out  of  her  retreat   in    the  bar,  and    once  more  took  her  old 

Boaster's  daughter  in  her  arms. 

Oh.  Miss  Milly.  Miss  Milly,'  she  cried,  k  I'm  a  little  dull  and  a  little  cast  down 
like  to-night,  and  I'm  all  of  a  tremble,  dear,  and  1  haven't  strength  to  talk  to 
you — only  remember  in  any  trouble,  dear,  always  remember  to  send  for  Sally 
Pecker,  and  she'll  stand  by  you  to  the  last.'  ■  § 

'Sally,  Sally,*  what  is   it?'  asked    Millicent,   tenderly;  'J    know   something 
wrong.     Is  it  anything  that  has  happened  to  you,  Sally?'' 

■  No,  no,  no,  dear.' 

•  Ur  to  any  one  connected  with  you  V 

•  No,  BO.' 

•  Then  what  is  it,  Sally?' 

•  Oh,  don't  ask  me  ;  don't,  for  pity's  sake,  ask  me,  Miss  Millicent.'  and  without 

I  er  word,  Sarah  Pecker  broke  from  the  embrace  of  the  soft  arms  which  were 
locked  lovingly  about  her  neck,  and  ran  hack  into  the  bar  ! 

!  1  couldn't  tell  her,  Samuel,'  she  whispered  in  her  husband's  ear — '  1  couldn't 


8£  UAEKELL  MAHKHAM;  OR 

tell  her  though  I  tried.  The  words  were  on  nry  lips,  but  something  rose  in  nay 
threat  and  choked  all  the  voice  I-  had  to  say  'em  with.  Now,  look  you  here, 
Samuel,  and  mind  you  do  what  I  tell .  you  faithful,  without  making  any  stupid 
mistakes.' 

'  I  will,  Sarah ;  I'll  do  it  faithful,  if  it's  to  walk  through  fire  and  water  ;  though 
that  ain't  likely,  fire  and  water  not  often  coming  together,  as  I  can  see.' 

'  You'll  get  the  lantern,  Samuel,  and  you'll  go  with  Mr.  Darrell  and  Miss  Mil- 
licent  to  light  them  to  the  Hall ;  and  when  you  get  there  you  won't  come  awaj 
immediate,  but  you'll  wait  and  see  what  happens,  and  bring  me  back  word,  es- 
pecially  ' 

'  Especially  what,  Sarah  ?' 

'  If  they  find  him  there.' 

/  I'll  do  it  faithful,  Sarah.  I  often  bring  you  the  wrong  groceries  from  market, 
but  I'll  do  this  faithful,  for  my  heart's  i*  it ' 

So  Millicent  and  Darrell  went  out  into  tlie  snowy  night  as  the  traveller  had 
gone  before  them. 

Samuel  Pecker  attended  with  the  lantern,  always  dexterously  contriving  to 
throw  a  patch  of  light  exactly  on  that  one  spot  in  the  road  whe^e  it  was  most  un- 
likely for  Darrell  and  Millicent  to  tread.  A  very  Will-'o-the-Wisp  was  the  light 
from  Samuel's  lantern  ;  now  shining  high  upon  a  leafless  hedge  top  ;  now  at  the 
bottom  of  a  ditch ;  now  far  ahead,  now  away  to  the  left,  now  to  the  extreme  right, 
but  never  affording  one  glimmer  upon  the  way  that  he  and  •his  companions  had  to 
^:o.  The  feathery  snow-flakes  drifting  on  the  moors  shut  out  the  winter  sky  till 
all  the  atmosphere  seemed  blind  and  thick  with  woolly  cloud.  The  snow  lay  deep 
on  every  object  in  the  landscape — house-top  and  window-ledge,  chimney  and  door 
porch,  hedge  and  ditch,  tree  aijd  gate-post,  village  street  and  country  road  jail 
melted  and  blotted  away  in  one  mass  of  unsullied  whiteness  ;  so  that  each  familiar 
spot  seemed  changed,  and  a  new  world  just  sprung  out  of  chaos  could  hardly  have 
been  more  painfully  strange  to  the  inhabitants  of  the  old  one. 

Compton  Hall  was  situated  about  half  a  mile  from  the  village  street,  and  lay 
bo,ck  from  the  high  road,  with  a  waste  of  neglected  shrubbery  and  garden  before 
it.  The  winding  carriage-way,  leading  from  the  great  wooden  entrance  gates  to 
the.  house,- was  half  choked  by  the  straggling  and  unshorn  branches  of 'the  shrubs 
that  grew  on  either  side  of  it.  There  were  few  carriage  folks  about  Compton-oti- 
the-Moor,  and  the  road  had  been  little  used  save  by  foot  passengers. 

At  the  gate  Darrell  Markham  stopped  and  took  the  lantern  from  Mr.  Pecker's 
hand. 

'  The  path  is  rather  troublesome  here,'  he  sadd;  '  perhaps  I'd  better  light  the 
way  my^lf,  Samuel.' 

'"It  was  thus  that  the  light  of  the  lantern  being  cast  upon  the  pathway  straight 
before  them,  Millicent  happened  to  perceive  footsteps  upon  the  snow. 

These  footsteps  were  those  of  a  man,  and  led  from  the  gates  towards  the  house. 
The  feet  could  but  just  have  trodden  the  path,  for  the  falling  snow  was  fast  filling 
in  the  traces  of  them. 

'.Who  can  have  come  to  the  Hall  so  late?'  exclaimed  Millicent. 

She  happened  to  look  at  Samuel  Pecker  as  she  spoke.  The  innkeeper  stood 
staring  helplessly  at  her,  his  teeth  audibly  chattering  in  the  quiet  night. 

Darrell  Markham  laughed  «t  her  alarm. 

1  Why,  Milly,'  he  said,  '  the  poor  little  hand  resting  on  my  arm  trembles  as  if 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE.  >7 

.you  were  looking  at  the  footmarks  of  a  ghost — though  I  suppose,  by  the  bye,  that 
ghostly  feet  scarcely  leave  any  impression  behind  them.  Come,  Milly,  come,  1 
see  the  light  of  a  fire  in  your  father's  favorite  parlour.  Come, -dearest,  this  cold 
night  is  chilling  you  to  the  heart.' 

Something  had  indeed  chilled  her  to  the  heart,  but  it  was  no  external  influence 
of  the  January  weather.  Some  indefinable,  instinctive  terror  had  takeu  possession 
of  her  on  seeing  those  manly  footsteps  in  the  snow.  Darrell  led  her  to  the  house. 
A  terrace  built  of  honest  red  brick,  and  flanked  by  grim  stone  vases  of  hideous 
shape,  ran  along  the  facade  of  the  house  in  front  of  the  windows  on  the  ground 
floor.  Darrell  and  Millicent  ascended  some  side  steps  leading  to  the  terrace,  fol- 
lowed by  Mr.  Pecker. 

To  reach  the  front  door  they  had  to  pass  several  wiudows  ;  amongst  others  that 
wiudow  from  which  the  'lire-light  shone.  Passing  this  it  was  but  natural  they 
should  look  for  a  moment  at  the  chamber  within. 

The  light  from  a  newl^-kindled-  fire  was  flickering  upon  the  sombre  oaken  pan- 
%  Belling  ;  and  close  beside  the  hearth,  with  his  back  to  the  wiudow,  sat  the  same 
traveller  whom  Samuel  Pecker  had  last  seen  beneath  his  own  roof.  The  uncertain 
flame  of  the  fire,  shooting  up  for  a  moment  in  a  vivid  blaze,  only  to  sink  back  and 
leave  all  in  shadow,  revealed  nothing  but  the  mere  outline  of  this  man's  figure,  and 
revealed  even  that  but  dimly,  yet  at  the  very  first  glance  through  the  uncurtained' 
wiudow,  31illicent  Puke  uttered  a  great  cry,  and  falling  on  her  knees  in  the  snow, 
sobbed  aloud — '  My  husband  !  my  husband,  returned  alive  to  make  me  the  guiltiest 
and  most  miserable  of  women  !' 

She  grovelled  on  the  sjiowy  ground,  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands  and  wailing 
piteously. 

Darrell  lifted  her  iu  his  arms  and  carrieM  her  into  the  house.  The  traveller 
had  heard  the  cry,  and  stood  upon  the  hearth,  with  his  back  to  the  fire,  facing  the 
open  door.  In  the  dusky  shadow  of  .the  fire-lit  room  there  was  little  change  to  be 
seeu  iu  the  face  or  person  of  George  Duke.  The  same  curls  of  reddish  auburn 
fell  about  his  shoulders. rescaped  from  the  careless  ribbou  that  kuottcd  them  behind; 
the  same  steady  light  burned  in  the  hazel  brown  eyes,  ami  menaced  mischief  as 
of  old.  Seen  by  this  half. light,  seven  years  seemed  to  have  made  no  change 
whatever  iu  the  Captain  of  the  Yultur< . 

1  What's  this,  what's  the  meaning  of  all  this  ?'  he  exclaimed,  as  Darrell  Mark- 
ham  carried  the  stricken  creature  he  had  wedded  three  days  before,  into  the  Hall 
'  What  does  it  mean  '(' 

Darrell  laid  his  cousin  ou  a  couch  beside  the  hearth  ou  which  the  Captain  stood, 
before  he  auswered  the  question. 

'  It  means  this.  George  Duke,'  he  said  at  last,  '  it  means  that  if  ever  you  wetfi 
pitiful  in  your  life,  you  should  be  pitiful  to  this  poor  girl  to-night.' 

The  Captain  of  the  Vulture  laughed  aloud.  '  Pitiful,'  he  cried  ;  I  never  yet 
heard  that  a  woman  needed  any  great  pity  ou  having  her  husbaud  restored  to  her 
after  upwards  of  seven  years'  separation.' 

Darrell  looked  at  him  half  contemptuously,  half  compassionately. 

•  I  an  vou  gueaa  nothing?'  he  add. 

'  No/ 

1  Can  you  imagine  no  fatal  result  of  your  long  absence  from  this  place  :  in  nv 
people — every  oue — thinking  you  de  • 


88 


DARRELL  MARKHAM  ;  OR 


<  Can  you  think  .of  nothing  Hkely  to  have  happened — remembering,  as  yon 
must,  that  this  poor  girl  married  you  in  obedience  to  her  fathers  command, .and 
against  her  own  wishes  ?' 

'No.' 

•  Can  you  guess  nothing  V 

'  How  if  I  don't  choose  to  guess,  Master  Darrell  Markham  ?  How  if  1  say 
that  whatever  you  want  me  to  know  you  must  speak  out  word  for  word,  however 
much  cause  you  and  my  lady  there  may  have  to  be  ashamed  to  tell  it.  I'll  help 
you  by  no  guesses,  I  can  tell  you.     Speak  out,  what  is  it  ?' 

He  stirred  the  fire  with  the  toe  of  his  boot,  striking  the  coals  into  a  blaze,  in 
order  that  the  light  might  shine  upon  his  rival's  face,  and  that  whatever  trouble 
or  humiliation  Darrell  Markham  might  have  to  undergo  might  not  be  lost  to  him. 

'  What  is  it  ?'  he  repeated  savagely. 

4  It  is  this,  George  Duke — but  before  I  speak  another  word,  remember  that 
whatever  has  been  done  has  been  done  in  opposition  to-«-your  wife.' 

The  pain  he  had  in  calling  the  woman  he  loved  by  this  name  was  not  lost  on. 
Captain  Duke.  Darrell  could  see  it  reflected  in  the  malicious  sparkle  of  those 
cruel  brown  eyes,  and  nerved  himself  agaiost  affording  another  triumph  to  his 
rival. 

'  Remember,'  he  said,  '  through  all,  that  she  is  blarrfeless-'  '    . 

'  Suppose  we  leave  her  and  her  blamelessness  alone,'  answered  the,  Captain, 
k  until  you've  told  me  what  has  been  done.' 

'  Millicent  Duke,  being  persuaded  by  her  brother  in  a  letter  written  on  his  dy- 
ing bed,  being  persuaded  by  every  creature  in  this  place,,  all  believing  you  to  be 
dead,  being  persuaded  by  her  old  nurse  and  by  me,  using  every  prayer  I  knew  to 
win  her  consent,  against  her  own  wisTi  and  in  opposition  to  her  own  better  judg- 
ment, was  married  to  me  three  days  ago  in  the  church  of  St.  Bride's^  London/ 

'  Oh,  that's  what  you  wanted  me  to  guess,  is  it  V  exclaimed  the  Captain ;  <  by 
the  heaven  above  me,  I  thought  as  much  !  Now  you  come  here  and  listen  to  me, 
Miss  Millicent  Markham,  Mrs.  George  Duke,  Mrs.  Darrell  Markham,  or  whatever 
you  may  please  to  call  yourself — come  here.' 

She  had  been  lying  on  the  sofa,  never  blest  by  one  moment's  unconsciousness, 
but  acutely  sensible  of  every  word  that  had  been  said.  Her  husband  caught  hold 
of  her  wrist  with  a  rough  jerk,  and  lifted  her  from  the  sofa. 

'  Listen  to  me,  will  you,'  he  said,  '  my  very  dutiful  aucl  blameless  wife  ?     I  am 
goinsj  to  ask  you  a  few  questions, .do  you  hear?' 
*    'Yes.' 

She  neither  addressed  him  by  his  name  nor  looked  at  him  as  he  spoke.  Gentle 
as  she  was,  tender  and  loving  as  she  was,  to  every  animate  thing,  she  made  no 
show  of  gentleness  to  him,  nor  any  effort  to  conceal  her  shuddering  abhorrence 
of  him. 

'  When  your  brother  died,  he  left  you  this  propertv,  did  he  not  V 

<  He  did.' 

■'  And  he  left  nothing  to  your  cousin,  Mr.  Darrell,  yonder  V 

•  Nothing — but  his  dear  love.' 

'  Never  mind  his  dear  loVe.     He  didn't  leave  an  acre  of  land  or  a   golden 
guinea,  eh  V 
1  He  did  not.' 


P]  E  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VUI/tURE.      '  gg 

•  Good  !  Now,  as  I'don't  choose  to  hold  any  communication  with  a  gentleman 
who  persuades  another  man's  wife  to  marry  him  in  her  husband's  absence,  against 
her  own  wish,  and  in  opposition  to  her  better  judgment,  I  use  his  own  words, 
mark  you — you  will  be  so  good  as  to  tell  him  this.  Tell  him  that,  as  your  hus- 
band, I  claim  a  share  in  your  fortune,  whatever  it  may  be ;  and  that  as  to  this 
little  matter  of  a  marriage;  in  which  you  have  been  so  blameless,  I  shall  know  how 
to  settle  accounts  with  you  upon  that  point,  without  any  interference  from 
him.  Tell  him  this,  and  tell  him  also  that  the  sooner  he  takes  himself  out  of  this 
house;  the  pleasanter  it  will  be  for  all  parties.' 

She  stood  with  he*r  hands  clasped  tightly  together,  and  her  fixed  eyes  Blaring 
into  vacancy,  while  he  spoke,  and  it  seemed  as  if  she  neither  heard  nor  compre- 
hended him.  When  he  had  done  speaking,  she  turned  round,  and  looking  him 
full  in  the  face,  cried  out,  '  George  Duke,  did  you  stay  away  these  seven  years  on 
purpose  to  destroy  me,  body  and  soul  V 

•  1  stayed  away  seven  years,  because  ten  months  after  1  sailed  from  Marie? 
Water  I  was  cast  away  upon  a  desert  i#md  in  the  Pacific,'  he  answered,  doggedly. 

J  Captain  Puke,'  said  Parrel],  'since  my  presence  here  can  only  cause  pain  to 
vouv  unhappy  wife.  I  leave  this  house.  I  shall  call  upon  you  to-morrow  to  account 
tor  your  words;  but  in  the  meantime,  remember  this,  1  am  yonder  poor  girl's  sole 
surviving  kinsman,  and,  by  the  heaven  above  me,  if  you  hurt  but  a  hair  of  her 
head,  you  had  better  have  perished  on  one  of  the  islands  of  the  Pacific,  than  have 
come  back  here  to  account  to  Darrell  Markham  !' 

'  I'm  not  afraid  of  you,  Mr.  Markham.  I  know  how  to  treat  that  innocent  lady 
r'o  re,  without  taking  a  lesson  -from  you  or  any  one  else.     Good  night  to  you.' 

He  nodded  with  an  insolent  gesture  in  the  direction  of  the  door 

'  To-morrow,'  said  Darrell. 

•  To-morrow,  at  your  service,'  answered  the  Captain.  , 

•  Stop  !'  cried  Millicent,  as  her  cousin  was  leaving  the  room  ;  '  my  husband  took 
an  caning  from  me  when  we  parted  at^Marley,  and  bade  me  ask  him  for  it  on  his 
return.      Have  you  that  trinket  V 

She  looked  him  in  the  face  with  an  earnest,  hall-terrified  gaze.  She  remem- 
bered the  double  of  George  Puke,  seeu  by  her  upon  Marley  Pier,  in  the  winter 
moon-light. 

The  sailor  took  a  small  canvas  bag  from  his  waistcoat  pocket.  The  bag  con- 
tained a  few  pieces  of  gold  and  silver  money,  and  the  diamond  earring  which 
.Millicent  had  given  George  Puke  on  the  night  of  their  parting. 

•  "V V i  1 1  that  satisfy  you,  my  lady?'  he  asked,  handing  her  the  gem. 

•  Yes,'  she  answered,  with  a  long,  heavy  sitrh  ■  and  then  going  straight  to  her 
cousin,  she  put  her  two  icy  han'ds  into  his,  and  addressed  him  thus  : — 

•  Farewell,  Darrell  Markham,  we  must  never,  never  meet  again..  Heaven  for- 
_ive  us  both  for  our  sin  ;  for  heaven  'knows  we  were  innocent  of  evil  intent.  1 
will  obey  this  man  in  all  things,  and  do  my  duty  to  him  to  my  dying  day ;  but  I 
i  an  never  again  be  what  I  was  to  him  before  he  left  this  place  seven  years  ago. 
Good  night.' 

She  put  him  from  her  with  a  solemn  gesture,  which,  with  the  simple  words  that 
she  had  spoken,  seemed  to  him  like  a  dissolution  of  their  marriage. 

He  took  her  in  his  arms,  and  pressed  his  lips  to  her  forehead ;  then  leading  hei 
back  to  George  Puke,  he  said — «  be  merciful  to  her,  as  you  hope  for  I  h  !'-  mercy.' 


90  DARRELL  MARKHAJI;  OR 

Iq  the  hall  without,  Darrell  Markham  found  Mr.  Samuel  Pecker,  who,  crouch- 
ing against  the  half-open  door,  had  been  a  patient  listener  to  the  foregoing  scene. 

'  It  Was  according  to  the  directions  of  Sarah,'  he  said,  apologetically,  as  Darrell 
emerged  from  the  parlour,  and  surprised  the  delinquent.  '  I  was  to  be.  sure,  and 
take  her  word  of  all  that  happened.  Poor  young  thing,  poor  young  thing !  It 
seems  such  a  pity  when  Providence  casts  folks  on  desert  islands,  it  don't  leave  'em 
there,  snug  and  comfortable,  and  no  inconvenience  to  themselves  or  anybody  else." 

It  seems  as  if,  upon  this  particular  night,  Mr.  Pecker  was  doomed  to  meet  with 
inattentive  listeners.  Darrell  Markham  had  strode  past  him  on  the  terraee,  and 
from  the  terrace  to  the  pathway  leading  to  the  high  road.    ." 

The  young  man  walked  so  fast  that  Samuel  had  some  difficulty  in  trotting 
after  him-.  .       - 

'  Excuse  the  liberty,  Mr.  Markham,  but  where  might  you  be  going?'  he  said. 
when  at  last  he  overtook  Darrell,  just  as  the  latter  dashed  out  on  to  the  high  road. 
and  halted  for  a  moment  as  if  uncertain  which  way  to  turn, 'humbly  Begging 
"your  pardon,  sir,  where  might  you  be  goi^f  Y 

1  Ay,  where,  indeed  ?'  said  Darrell,  looking  back  at  the  lighted  window.  '  1 
don't  like  to  leave  the  neighborhood  of  this  house  to-night.  I  want  to  be  uear 
her.     My  poor,  poor  girl !' 

'But,  you  see,  Mr.  Darrell,'  urged  Samuel,  interrupting  himself  every  now  and 
then  to  shift  the  lantern  from  his  right  hand  to  his  left,  and  to  blow  upon  his  dis- 
engaged fingers,  i  as  it  don't  happen  to  be  particular  mild  weather,  I  don't  see 
how  you  cau  spend  the  night  hereabouts  very  well;  so  I  hope,  sir,  you'll  kindly 
make  the  Black  Bear  your  home  for  such  time  as  you  may  please  to  stay  in  Comp- 
ton;  only  adding  that,  the  longer  the  better  for  me  and  Sarah.' 

There  was  an  affectionate  earnestness  in  Samuel's  address  which  could  not  fail 
to  touch  Darrell,  distracted  as  was  his  mind  at  that  moment. 

'  You're  a  good  fellow,  Pecker/  he  said,  'and  I'll  follow  your  advice.  I'll  stay 
at  the  Bear  to-night,  and  I'll  stay  there  till  I  see  how  that  man  means  to  treat  my 
unfortunate  cousin.' 

Samuel  led  the  way,  lantern  in  hand.  It  was  close  upon  ten  o'clock,  and 
scarcely  a  lighted  window  glimmered  upon  the  deserted  village  street ;  but  half- 
way between  the  Hall  and  the  Black  Bear  the  two  pedestrians  met  a  man  wearing 
a  horseman's  cloak,  and  muffled  to  the  chin,  with  the  snow-flakes  lying  white  upon 
his  hat  and  shoulders. 

Samuel  Pecker  gave  this  man  a  friendly  though  feeble  good-night,  but  the  man 
seemed  a  surly  fellow,  and  made  no,  answer.  The  snow  lay  so  deep  upon  the 
ground  that  the  three  men  passed  each  other  noiselessly  as  shadows. 

<  Have  you  ever  taken  notice,  Mr.  Darrell,'  said  Samuel,  some  time  afterwards, 
'  that  folks  in  snowy  weather  looks  very  much  like  ghosts  ;  quiet,  and  white,  and 
solemn?'  •  '  „   ■ 


Left  alone  in  the  solitude  of  the  bar,  Mrs.  Pecker,  lost  in  dreamy  reflection, 
suffered  the  fire  to  burn  low  and  the  candles  to  remain  unsnuffed,  until  the  long 
wicks  grew  red  and  topheavy,  smouldering  rather  than  burning,  and  givinsr 
scarcely  any  light  whatever. 

The  few  customers,  who  had  been  drinking  and  talking-  together  since  six  or 


THE  CAPTAIN'  OF   THE  VULTURE  91 

seven  o'clock,  strolled  out  iuto  the  snow,  leaving  all  at  one  time  for  company,  and 
the  business  of  the  inn  was  done.  The  one  waiter,  or  Jack-of-all-trades  off  the 
establishment,  prepared  to  shut  up  the  house  ;*and,  as,  the  first  step  towards  agoing 
so,  opened  the  front  door  and  looked  out  to  see  what  sort  of  night  it  was. 

As  he  did  so,  the  biting  winter  breeze  blew  in  upon  him,  extinguishing  the 
caudle  in  his  hand,  and  also  putting  out  the  two  lights  in  the  bar. 

'  What  are  you  doing  there,  Joseph  V  Mrs.  Pecker  exclaimed,  sharply.  '  Come 
in  and  shut  up  the  place.'  * 

Joseph  was  about  to  obey,  when  a  horseman  galloped  up  to  the  door,  and  spring- 
ing from  his  horse,  looked  into  the  dimly-lighted  hall. 

'Why,  you're  all  in  the  dark  here,  good  people,'  he  said,  stamping  his  feet  an  I 
shaking  the  snow  from  his  shoulders.     '  What's  the  matter  ?' 

Mrs.  Sarah  Pecker  was'stooping  Oyer  the  red  embers, 'trying  to  re-light  one  of 
the,  candles. 

'Can  you  tell  me  the  way  to  Compton  Hall,  my  good  friend?'  said  the  traveller 
to  Joseph  the  waiter.- 

'Squire  Markham's  that  was':' 

'Ay,  Stpiire  Markham's  that  was." 

The  waiter  gave  the  necessary  directions,  which  were*  simple  enough. 

'Gflod,'  said  the  stranger;  '  1  shall  go  on  foot,  so  do  you  fetch  the  ostler  and 
give  him  charge  of  my  horse.  The  animal's  hard  beat,  and  wants  rest  and  a  good 
feed  of  corn.' 

The  waiter  hurried  oft'  to  find  the  ostler,  who  was  asleep  in  a  loft  over  the 
stables.  The  stranger  strode  up  to  the  bar,  in  the  interior  of  which  Mrs.  Pecker 
was  still  straggling  with  the  refractory  wick  of  the  tallow  candle. 

'  You  seem  to  have  a  difficult  job  with  that,  light,  ma'am,'  he  said  ;  but,  per- 
haps, you'll  make  as  short  work  of  it  as  you  can,  and  'give  me  a  glass  of  brandy, 
for  my  very  vitals  are  frozen  with  a  twenty-mile  ride  through  the  snow.' 

There  was  something  in  th^  stranger's  \»ic"e  which  reminded  Sarah  Pecker  oi 
some  other  voice  that  she  knew.;  only  that  it  was  deeper  and  gruffer  than  thai 
other  voice. 

She  succeeded  at  last  in  lighting  the  candle,  and  placing  it  iu  front  of  the  bar 
between  herself  and  the  traveller,  took  up  a  wine-glass  for  the  brandy. 

'  A  tumbler,  a  tumbler,  ma'am,'  remonstrated  the  stranger  ;  '  this  is  no  weather 
for  drinking  spirits  out  of  a  thimble.' 

The  man's  face  was  so  shaded  by  his  slouched  hat,  and  further  concealed  by  the 
thick  neckerchief  muffled  about  his  throat,  that  it  was  utterly  irrecognizable  in 
the  dim  light  of  Sarah  Pecker's  one  tallow  candle;  but'as  he  took  the  glass  of 
brandy  from  Sally's  hand,  he  pushed  his  hat  off  his  forehead,  and  lowered  his 
neckerchief  in  order  to  drink. 

lie  threw  back  his  head  as  he  swallowed  the  last  drop  of  the  fiery  liquor,  then 
throwing  Mrs.  Pecker  the  price  of  the  brandy,  he  bade  her  a  hasty  good-night, 
and  strode  out  of  the  house. 

The  empty  glass  dropped  from  Sarah's  hands,  and  shivered  into  fragments  oa 
the  floor.  Her  white  aud  terror-stricken  face  frightened  the  waiter  when  he  re- 
turned from  his  errand  to  the  stables. 

The  man  she  had  served  with  brandy  could  not  surely  be  George  Duke,  for  the 
Captain  had  an  hour  before  set  out  for  the  Hall;  but,  if  not  George  Duke  him- 


Q2  DARRELL  MARKHAM;  OR 

•  » 

self,  this  wan  was  most  certainly  some  unearthly  shadow  or  double  of  the  Captain 
of  the  Vulture. 

Sarah  Pecker  was  a  woman  of  Strong  sense  ;  but  she  was  ^uman,  and  when 
questioned  upon  her  pale  face  and  evident  agitation,  she  told  Joseph,  the  waiter, 
Betty,  the  cook,  and  Phoebe  Price,  the  pretty  chambermaid,  the  whole  story  of 
.Millicent's  fatal  marriage,  Captain  Puke's  return,  and  the  ghost  that  bad  followed 
him  back  to  Compkm-on-the-Moor. 

■  When  Miss  Millicent  parted  with  her  husband  seven  years  ago,  she  met  the 
same  shadow  upon  Marley  Pier,  and  now  that  he's  come  back  the  shadow  has  come 
back  too.  There's  more  than  flesh  and  blood  in  all  that,  you  may  take  my  word 
tor  it.'  • 

The  household  at  the  Black  Beav  had  enough  to  talk  of  that  night.  What  was- 
the  excitement  of  a  west-country  baronet,  generous  anddiandsome  as  he  might  be, 
to  that  caused  by  the  visit  of  a  ghost,  which  called  for  a  tumbler  of  brandy,  drank 
it  and  paid  for  it  like  a  Christian? 

Samuel  and  Sarah  sat  up  late  in  the  little  bar  talking  of  the  apparition,  but 
they  wisely  kept  the  secret  from  Parrell  Markham,  thinking  that  he  had  trouble 
enough  without  the  knowledge. 


CHAPTER  XVII.— Captain  Puke  at  Home. 

Gteorge  Duke  sat  by  the  fire,  staring  moodily  at  the  burning  coals,  and  never  so 
much  as  casting  a  look  in  the  direction  of  the  wretched- pale  face  of  his  wife,  who 
stood  upon  the  spot  where  Darrell  had  left  her,  with  her  hands  clasped  about  her 
heart,  and  her  eyes  dilated  in  a  fixed  and  vacant  gaze,  almost  terrible  to  look  upon. 

The  sole  domestic  at  the  Hall  was  the  same  old  woman  wh§  Jiad  succeeded 
Sally  Masterson  as  the  squire's  housekeeper,  and  s^pce  kept  house  for  Kingwood 
and  his  sister.  She  was  half  blind  and  hopelessly  deaf,  and  she  took  the  return 
of  ( !aptain  Duke  as  quietly  as  if  the  sailor  had  not  been  away  seven  weeks. 

How  long  she  stood  in  the  same  attitude,  seeing  nothing,  thinking  of  nothing, 
how  long  Captain  George  Duke  sat  brooding  over  the  hearth,  with  the  red  blaze 
upon  his  cruel  face,  Millicent  never  knew.  She  only  knew  that  by-and-bye  he 
addressed  her,  still  without  looking  at  her — 

'  Is  there  anything  to  drink — any  wine  or  spirits  in  this  dull  old  place  ?'»he 
asked. 

She  told  him  that  she  did  not  know,  but  that  she  would  go  and  find  Mrs.  Mag- 
gie (the  deaf  old  woman),  and  ascertain. 

In  the  overwrought  state  of  her  brain,  it  was  a  relief  to  her  to  have  to  do  her 
husband's  bidding;  a  relief  to  her  to  go  outside  the  chilly  hall  and  breathe  an- 
other atmosphere  than  that  which  he  respired. 

It  was  a  long  time  before  she  could  make  Mrs.  Meggis  understand  what  she 
wanted;  but  when  at  last  the  state  of  the  case  dawned  upon  the' old  woman,  she 
nodded  several  times  triumphantly,  took  a  key  from  a  great  bunch  that  hung  over 
the  dresser,  opened  a  narrow  door  in  one  corner  of  the  large  stone-flagged  kitchen, 
and,  candle  in  hand,  descended  a  flight  of  steps  leading  into  the  cellar. 

After  a  considerable  period  she  emerged  with  a  bottle  under  each  arm.     She 


0 
OR  THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE,  jq  93 

held  each  of  these  bottles' before  the  light  for  Millicent  to  see  the  liquid  they 
contained.  That  iu  one  was  of  a  bright  amethyst  colour,  the  other  a  golden 
brown.     The  first  was  claret,  the  second  brandy. 

Millicent  was  preparing  to  leave  the  kitchen,  followed  by  the  old  housekeeper 
carrying  the  bottles  and  a  couple  of  glasses,  when  she  was  startled  by  a  knocking 
at  the  hall-door.  When  Mrs.  Meggis  became  aware  of  this  summons,  she  put 
down  her  tray  of  bottles  and  glasses,  and  went  ouce  more  to  the  bunch  of  keys, 
for  on  the  departure  of  Darrell  and  Sarah  Pecker  the  door  had  been  locked  for 
the  night.  It  was  cow  past  eleven.  An  unusual  hour  for  visitors  anywhere;  tin 
unearthly  hour  at  this  lonely  Cumbrian  mansion.  Millicent  had  but  one  thought. 
It  must  be  Darrell  Markham. 

She  took  the  tray  herself  and  followed  Mrs.  Meggis,  who  carried  the  light  and 
the  keys.  When  they  reached  the  hall,  Millicent  left  the  old  woman  to  open  the 
door,  and  went  straight  into  the  parlour  to  carry  George  Duke  the  liquor  he  had 
asked  for. 

'  That's  right,'  he  said  ;  '  fhy  throat's  as  hot  as  lire.  So,  so !  no  corkscrew '.' 
1  leaven  bless  these  pretty  novel-reading  wives,  they're  so  good  at  looking  after  a 
man's  comfort !' 

He  took  a  pistol  from  his  breast,  and  with  the  butt-end  knocked  off  the  necks 
of  the  two  bottles,  spilling  the  wine  and  spirit  upon  the  polished  parlour  table. 

He  rilled  a  glass  from  each,  and  draiued  them  oue  after  the  other. 

'Good,'  he  said;  'the  claret  first,  aud  the  brandy  afterwards.  We  don't  gel 
such  liquor  as  this  in — in  the  Pacific.  I  shall  have  no  heel-taps  tonight.  Mrs 
Duk<\     What's  that  V 

He  looked  up  from  the  third  glass  that  he  had  emptied  to  ask  the  question. 

That  which  had  attracted  his  attention  was  the  sound  of  voices  in  the  hall  with- 
out— the  shrill  treble  pipe. of  Mrs.  Meggis,  aud  the  deep  voice  of  a  man. 

'  What  is  it  ?'  repeated  George  Duke.     '  Go  and  see,  can't  you  V 

Millieeut  opened  the  parlour  door  aud  looked  out  into  the  hall.  Mrs.  Meggis 
was  Standing  with  the, heavy  door  in  her  hand,  parleying  with  some  strange  man 
who  stood  in  the  snow  upon  the  threshold. 

The  same  bitter  winter  wind  which  had  extinguished  the  lights  at*  the  Black 
Bear  had  blown  out  the  guttering  tallow  candle  carried  by  Mrs.  Meggis,  aud  the 
hall  was  quite  dark. 

1  What  is  it  V  Millicent  asked.  • 

'  Why,  it  is  merely  this,  ma'am,'  answered  the  man   upon  the  threshold  :  '  this 
|  woman  is  rather  hard  of  hearing,  and  not  over  easy  to  understand  ;  but  from 
what  she  tells  me,  it. seems  that  Captain  Duke  has  come  home.     Is  that  true?* 

The  man  spoke  from  behind  the  thick  folds  of  a  woollen  handkerchief,  which 
muffled  aud  disguised  his  voice,  as  much  as  it  concealed  his  face.  Even  in  the 
obscurity  he  seemed  jealous  of  being  seen,  for  he  drew  himself  further  back  into 
the  shadow  of  the  doorway  as  he  spoke  to  Mrs.  Duke. 

'  It  is  quite  true,'  answered  Millicent;  'Captain  Duke  has  retu: 

The  man  muttered  an  angry  oath. 

•  Returned,1  he  said. ;  '  returned.     Surely  he  must  have  come  back  very  lately  ?' 
'  lie  came  back  to-night.' 

'To-night!  to-night!     Not  half-a-dozen  hours  ago,  1  - 

•  N  )t  thre?  hours  aao  ' 


<)4      £  DARRELL  MARKHAM ;  OR 

'  That's  good,'  muttered  the  man,  with  another  imprecation  ;  '  that's  like  my 
luck,  Down  once,  down  always;  that's  the  way  of  the  world.  Good-night, 
ma'am  !' 

He  left  the  threshold  without  another  word,  and  went  away;  his  footsteps 
noiseless  in  the  depth  of  snow. 

•  Who  w^s  it  V  asked  George  Puke,  when  Millicent  had"  returned  to  the  parlour. 
'  Some  man  who  wanted  to  know  if  you  had  returned.' 

'  Where  is  he  V  cried  the  Captain,  starting  from  his  seat,  and  going  towards  the  hall. 
,'  Gone.' 
1  Cone,  without  my  seeing  him  V 

•  lie  did  not  ask  to  see  you.' 

The  Captain  of  the  Vulture  clenched  his  fist  with  a  savage  frown,  looked  at 
Millicent,  as  if  in  some  sudden  burst  of  purposeless  fury  he- could  fain  have 
struck  her. 

'Gone!  gone !'  he  said;  'd him,  whoever  he  is.     On  the  very  night  of 

my  return,  too !'        .  ' 

He  began  to  pace  up  and  down  the  room,  his  arms  folded  upon  his  breast,  and 
his  head  bent  gloomily  downwards. 

'  The  garden  room  has  been  prepared  for  you.  Captain  Duke,'  said  Millicent, 
walking  towards  the  door,  and  pausing  upou  the  threshold  to  speak  to  him';  '  it  is 
the  best  room  in  the  house,  and  has  been  kept  well  aircd>;  for  it  was  poor  Ring- 
wood's  favourite  chamber.     Mrs.  Meggis  has  lighted  a  good  fire  there.' 

'Ay,'  Said  the  Captain,  looking  up  with  a  malicious-  laugh,  '  it  would  be  clever 
to  give  me  damp  sheets  to  sleep  upon,  and  kill  me  on  the  night  of  my  return. 
Folks  could  scarcely  call  that  murder,  and  it  might  be  so  easy  done.'  ■• 

She  did  net  condescend  to  notice  this  speech.  '  Good  night,  Captain  Duke, 
she  said  : 

'Good  night,  my  kind,  dutiful  wife,  good  night.  I  am  to  have  the  garden 
room,  am  I  ?  well  and  good  !  May  I  ask  in  what  part  of  the  house  it  may  please 
your  ladyship  to  rest  V 

•  In  the  room  my  poor  mother  slept  in,'  ^ie  said      '  Good  .night' 

Left  to  himself,  the  Captain  of  the  Vulture  drew  the  table  close  to  the  hearth, 
and  seating  himself  in  old  Squire  Markham's  high-backed  arm-chair,  stretched 
<>ut  his  legs  before  the  blaze,  filled  lfis  glass,  and  made  himself  quite  comfortable. 

The  broad  light  of  the  fire  shining  full  upon  his  face  brought  out  the  changes 
worked  in  his  seven,  years'  absence.  'Wrinkles  and  hard  lines,  invisible  before, 
seemed  to  grow  and  gather  round  his  eyes  and  mouth  as  he  sat 'gloating  over  the 
'daze,  and  the  strong  drink,  and  the  comfort  about  him.  With  his  distorted  shadow 
cast  upou  the  panelling  behind  his  chair,  darkening  the  wall  with  its  exaggerated 
shape,  he  looked  like  some  evil  genius  brooding  over  that  solitary  hearth,  and  plot- 
ting mischief  for  the  roof  that  sheltered  him." 

Every  now  and  theu  he  looked  up  from  the  blaze  to  the  bottles  upon  the  table,, 
the  fire-lit  walls,  the  antique  bureau,  the  oaken  sideboard,  adorned  with  tankards  of 
massive  tarnished  silver  and  china  punch-bowls,  the  quaint  silver  candlesticks,  and 
all  other  evidences  of  solid  countryfied  prosperity  around  him,  and  rubbing  his 
hands  softly,  broke  out  into  a  low  triumphant  chuckle. 

'Better  than  over  yonder/  he  said,  with  a  backward  gesture  of  his  head — 
'  hetter  than  over  yonder,  anyhow.     Thunder  and  fury  !  better  than  that,  Ge 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTIRE.  ■  $5 

Duke.  You've  not  eha tiffed' your  quarters  for  the  worse,  since  you  bade  good-bye 
to  old  comrades  over  there.' 

He  filled  his  glass  again,  and  burst  into  some  fragment  ui'  a  French  song,  with 
a  jingling  chorus  of  meaningless  syllables. 

'  To  think,' he  said,  ■  only  to  fancy  that  this  Ringwood  Markham,  a  younger 
man  than  myself,  should  die  within  a  few  mouths  of  my  coming  home !  Egad, 
they've  said  that  George  Duke  was  one  of  those  fellows  who  always  fall  on  their 
■  et.  I've  had  a  hard  time  of  it  for  the  last  seven  years,  but  I've  dropped  into 
good  luck  after  all- — dropped  into  my  old  luck— a  fortune,  and  a  poor,  frightened 
wife  that  can't  say  boo  to  a  goose — a  poor,  trembling,  novel-reading,  pale-faced 

baby  that ' 

.  lie  broke  off  to  fill  himself  another  glass  of  claret.  He  had  nearly  finished  the 
bottle  up  this  time,  and  his  voice  was  growing  thick  and  unsteady.  Presently,  he 
fell  into  a  half  doze,  with  his  elbows  on  lii^  knees,  and  his  head  bent  over  the  tire. 
Sitting  thus,  nodding  forward  every  "now  and  then,  as  if  he  would  have  fallen  upon 
tfce  burning  coals,  he  woke  presently  with  a  sudden  jerk. 

'The  chain,'   he  cried,  ■  the  chain.     D you,  you  French   thief,  bear  your 

>i\vu  share  of  the  weight.' 

llejooked  down  at  his  feet.  One  of  the  heavy  fire-irons  had  fallen  across  his 
ankles.  Captain  Duke  laughed  aloud,  and  looked  around  the  room,  this  time  with 
a  drunken  stare. 

:  A  change,'  he  said,  '  a  change  for  the  better.' 

The  bottles  were  both  nearly  empty,  and  the  fire  had  burped  low.  Midnight 
had  sounded  some  time  before  from  the  distant  church  clock — the  strokes  dull  and 
muffled  in  the  snowy  weather.  The  Captain  of  the  Vulture  rubbed  his  eyes 
drowsy. 

1  My  head  is  as  light  as  a  feather,'  he  muttered  indistinctly;  '  I've  uot  been 
..ver-used  to  a  bottle  of  good  wine-  lately.  I'm  tired  and  worn  out,  too,  with  three 
days  coach  traveling,  and  a  week's  tossing  about  in  stormy  weather.  So  now  for 
the  garden  room;  and  to-morrow,  Mrs.  George  Duke  and  Mr.  Darrell  Markham,* 
for  you.'  .  '  ' 

He  shook  his  fist  at  the  low  tiro  as  he  spoke ;  then  rising  with  an  effort,  he  took 
a  candle  from  the  table,  blew  out  the  other,  and  staggered  off  to  find  his  way  to 
>>m  in  which  he  was  to  sleep. 

The  house  had  been  so  familiar  to  him  in  the  old  sijuire's  lifetime,  that,  drunk 
as  he  was,  he  had  no  fefar  of  losing  himself  in  the  gloomy  corridors  on  the  upper 
floor.  . 

The  garden  room  was  a  large' chamber,  which  had  been  added  to  the  house 
1  a  hundred  years  before,  for  the. accommodation  of  a  certain  whimsical  lady 
f . fortune,  who  had  married  old  Squire  Markham'?  grandfather.     It  was  a  large 
apartment,  with  a  bay-window  overlooking  a  flower-garden,  with  trimly-cut  box 
borders,  quaintly-shaped  shrubs,  and  a  fountain  that  had  long  been  dry.     A  half- 
glass  door  opened  on  to  a  flight  of*stonc  steps,  leading  down   into  this  garden  ; 
which  advantage,  added  to  the  superior  size  and  furniture  ol'  the  apartment,  had 
long  made  the  garden  room  the  state  chamber  at  Compton  Hall.     A  great  square 
bed,  with   gilded   frame  work  and  mouldering  tapestry  curtains,  faced  the  bay- 
window  and  the  half-glass  door,  which  was  shrouded  in  win+er  by  a  curtained" 
':e  hangings  of  the  1  * 


96  BARRELL  MARXHAM,  OR 

George  Duke  set  his  caudle  ou  a  table  near  the  fire  and  Jooked  about  him 

Millicent  had  spoken  the  truth  when  she  said  that  Mrs.  Megges  had  made  a 
good  fire,  for,  late  as  it  was,  the  wood  and  coal  burued  pleasantly  behind  the  bars 
of  the  wide  grate.  The  Captain  replenished  the  fire,  and  flinging  himself  into  an 
arm-chair,  kicked  off  his  dqnip,  worn  boots. 

'  There  isn't  a  shred  about  me  that  would  have  held  out  a  week  longer/  lie  sai'h 
as  he  looked  a£  his  patched  and  threadbare  blue  coat,  the  tarnished  lace  ou  which 
hung  in  frayed  fragments  here  and  there.  '  So  it's  no  bad  fortune  that  brought 
me  back  to  look  for  Mrs.  Millicent.' 

Even  in  his  intoxication  he  took  such  a  malicious  delight  in  having  returned  to 
cheat  and  outwit  his  wife,  that  the  triumphant  sparkle  re-illumined,  his  eyes. 
dull  as  they  had 'grown  with  wine  and  sleep. 

lie  took  off  his  boots,  coat,  and  waistcoat,  put  a  pair  of  pistols  under  the  pillow, 
and  throwing  back  the  counterpane,  flung  himself,  in  his  shirt,  breeches  and 
stockings,  upon  the  bed. 

'  I  wonder  whether  youder  glass  door  is  bolted,'  he  muttered,  as  he  dropped  ofl 
to  sleep  ;  '  of  course  it  is  though — and  little  matter  if  it  wasn't — I'm  not  much 
afraid  of  the  honest  villagers  of  Comptou-on-the-Moor,  for  folks  who  come  front 
the  place  I've  just  left,  don't  often  carry  much  to  be  robbed  of.' 

Mechanically,  the  wandering  right  hand  sought  the  butt-end  of  the  pistol  be- 
neath the  pillow,  aud  so,  with  his  fingers  resting  on  the  familiar  weapon,  George 
Duke  dropped  off  to  sleep. 

1  doubt  if  he  hud,  ever  said  a  prayer  iu  his  life.  T  know  that  he  said  uone  that 
night. 


CHAPTER  XVIIL— What  was  Done  in  the  Garden  Room. 

Fur  Millicent  Duke  there  was  no  sleep  ou  that  wretched,  hopeless  night:  she 
did  not  undress,  but  sat  still  and  rigid,  with  her  hands  locked  together,  and  her 
eyes  staring  straight  before  her,  thinking— thinking  of  what? 

What  was  she  ''  It  was  that.<juestk>u  which  some  weary,  monotonous  action  in 
her  brain  was  forever  asking  and  never  answering.  What  was  she,  and  what  had 
she  done  ?  What  was  the  degree  of  guilt  in  this  fatal  marriage,  a-ud  for  how 
much  of  that  guilt  was  she  responsible  ? 

She  had  opposed  the  marriage,  it  is  true,  and  she  had  striven  hard  agaiust  the 
tender  pleadings  of  every  memory  of  her  youth  and  its  one  undying  affection*  but 
she  had  yielded.  She  had  yielded*us  Darrell  had  but  truly  said,  asainst  her  bet 
ter  judgment ;  or  rather  against  some  instinctive,  unreasoning  warning  which  had 
whispered  to  her  that  she  was  not  free  to  wed. 

What  was  the  extent  of  her  guilt? 

She  had  been  simply  and  piously  educated. '   Educated  by  people,  whoso  honest 
minds  knew  no  degrees  of  right  or  wrong ;  whose  creed  lay  iu  hard,  unassailable 
doctrines  ;  and  who  set  up  the  Ten  Commandments  as  so  many  stone  boundaries 
about  the  Christian's  feet,  and  left  him  without  one  gap  or  loophole  by  which 
.•scape  their  full  siaaiicance. 

What  woul  >f  Comptou  say  to  he:  the  next  d  ■'...•  weut  to 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE. 

v 1 


him  to  fall  at  his  feet  and  tell  her  storv  ?     Then  n  nuiM*„   „„   •        •    ji 

she  flung  herself  upon  the  ground,  ^oIKug  tL^^d  S^W  pi  ^d« 

winch,  was  to  be  spent  with  him-with  tub  hate  \nd  £~S !Vk  •         T  '',,;' 

Peo2d;oP/She  Cried'  Piteous1^  'uo>no>  ^,  I  cannot  die  with  my  sias  rffc*. 

be  to  mo/  SdyMrDurrmy  g0°d-  faitbful  ^'H**  >  ***  she  would 

an  J  boko  !l°outa,ntd,!,0,1<!lineSS  °f  '!£  hTS  °P1,ressed  her'     Sh«  »P™*  the  window 
ana  looked  out  at  the  snow-eovered  garden  bebw.    The  feathery  flake?  still  Ml 
ng  always  mllmg   thick  and  sibutfy  from  the  starbss  i"  S  ot  the  w  r  d 

fr„  „  ir  l    «  the  °,'d  ,hT"  like  »  va8t  white  winding-sheet.     The  easement 
from  winch  Jlilheent  looked  was  at  that  angle  of  the  house  which  wS 

s?a2s,  rf  .rthteT1 !  but  aHhe  c°ujd  s<° at  ttc  ^^«ff*ss 

nit  reflection  ot  tho  lighted  bay-window  red  upon  the  snow. 
^^^^^^^  *•  *«+  ***  bright 

w4*5ro^  spot'some  dark  object  -*f » « 

at  aLnher  "nne'mifhf  {*  Wrfhed?e1ss  a°d  ^tery,  that  this  circumstance,  which    ' 
JLKCL^SS     lV°  alarU1Cd  her'  by  jesting  some  one's  prowling  about 
tie  ioue0  house,  made  no  impression  upon  Mrs.  Duke's  bewildered  mind      She 
closed    he  casement,  and  returning  to  the  fire-place,  sat  down  agaTn  ^ 

iu  her  hand  o^  '      ^  T*  ?terl*  iMev*b\e  toheri  s^e  took  the  candle 
,«  hei   hand,  opened  her  chamber  door,  went  out  upon  the  landing-place,  and 


g§  DARRELL  MARKHAM  ;  OR 

listened.     Listened,  she  knew  not  for  what — listened,  perhaps  hoping,  for  some 
sound  to  break  that  intolerable  stillness. 

She  could  hear  the  ticking  of  the  clock  in  the  hall  below.  Beyond  that,  noth- 
ing. Not  a  sound,  not  a  breath,  not  a  murmur,  not  a  whisper  throughout  the' 
house. 

Suddenly — to  her  dying  day  she  never  knew  how  the  idea  took  possession  of 
her — she  thought  that  she  would  go  straight  to  the  garden  room,  awake  George 
Duke,  make  him  an  offer  of  every  guinea  she  had  or  was  td  have  in  the  world, 
and  entreat  him  to  leave  her  and  Compton  forever. 

She  would  appeal  to  his  mercy1 — no',  rather  to  his  avarice  and  self-interest ;  she 
knew  of  old  how  little  mercy  she  need  expect  from  him.  She  turned  into  the  long 
corridor  leading  to  the  other  end  of  the  house.  The  door  of  the  garden  room  was 
shut,  and  her  right  hand  being  wounded,  and  muffled  in  a  handkerchief,  she  was 
some  time  trying  to  turn  the  handle  of  the  lock.  The  blood  from  the  cut  across 
her  hand  had  oozed  through  the  bandage,  and  left  red  smears  upon  the  old- 
fashioned  brass  knob. 

Millreent  was  perhaps  rather  more  than  two  minutes  trying  to  open  the  door. 

All  was  still  within  the  garden  chamber.  The  firelight  shone  in  fitful  flashes 
upon  the  faded  tapestry  and  the  dim  pictures  on  the  vails.  Millicent  crept  softly 
round  to  the  side  of  the  bed  upon  which  Captain  Duke  had  thrown  himself.  The 
sleeper  lay  with  his  face  turned  toward  the  fire,  and  his  hand  still  resting  on  the 
butt-end  of  his  pistol— exactly  as  he  had  lain  an  hour  before  when  he  fell  asleep. 

Millicent  remembered  how  her  brother  Ringwood  had  lain  in  this  very  room, 
dead  and  tranquil,  but  three  months  before.  Awe-stricken  by  the  stillness,  terrified 
by  the  remembrance  of  that  which  she  had  to  say,  Millicent  paused  between  the 
foot  of  the  bed  and  the  fire-place,  wondering  how  she  should  awake  her. husband. 

The  fire-light,  changeful  and  capricious,  now  played  upon  the  sleeper's  ringlets, 
lying  in  golden  brown  tangles  upon  the  pillow,  now  glanced  upon  the  white  fingers 
resting  on  the  pistol,  now  flashed  upon  the  tarnished  girding  of  the  bed  posts, 
now  glimmered  on  the  ceiling,  now  lit  up  the  wall ;  while  Milliceut's  weary  eyes 
followed  the  light  as  a  traveller, -astray  on  a  dark  night,  follows  a  TVill-o'-the- 
YTisp. 

She  followed  the  light  wherever  it  pleased  to  lead  her.  From  the- golden  ring- 
lets on  the  pillow  to  the  hand  upon  the  pistoly  from  the  gilded  bed  .posts  to  the 
ceiling  and  the  wall,  lower  and  lower  down  the  wall,  to  the  oaken  floor,  beside  the 
bed,  and  to  a  black  pool*  which  lay  there,  slowly  saturating  the  time-blackened 
wood. 

The  black  pool  was  blood — a  pool  that  grew  wider  every  second,  fed  by  a 
stream  that  was  silently  pouring  from  a  hideous  gash  across  the  throat  of  Captain 
George  Duke,  of  the  good  ship  Vulture. 

With  one  long  cry  of  horror  Millicent  Duke  turned  and  fed. 

Even  in  her  blind,  unreasoning  terror,  she  remembered  that  it  was  eas 
escape  from  that  horrible  house  by  the  glas3  door  leading  to  the  garden  thai 
the  staircase  and  the  hall.     This  half-glass  door  was  in  a  recess,  before  which  hung 
the  tapestry  cutains.     Millicent  dashed  aside  the  drapery,  opened  the  door,  which 
was  only  fastened  by  one  bolt,  and  rushed  down  the  stone  steps,  across  the  garden, 
along  the  neglected  pathways,  and  out  on  to  the  high  read. 

The  snow  was  knee-deen  as  she  tottered  through  it  onward  toward  the  village 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE.  99 

street,  She,  never  knew  how  she  dragged  her  weary  limbs  over  the  painful  dis-" 
tance  ;  but  she  knew  that  the  clocks  were  striking  three  when  she  knocked  at  the 
door  of  the  Black  Bear. 

Samuel  Pecker,  scared  by  tbe  events  of  the  day,  and  yet  more  terrified  by  this 
unwonted  knocking,  opened  the  dour  a  few  inches  wide,  and,  candle  in  hand, 
looked  out  of  the  aperture. 

had   he  opened  that  very  door  for  the  same  visitor  more  than  seven*  years 
upon  a  certain  autumn  night,  when  Darrell  Markham  lay  above  stairs  in  the 
blue  room,  sick  and  delirious. 

'  Who  is  it  ?'  he  asked,  shivering  in  every  limb. 

'  It  is  I — Millicent.     Let  me  in,  let  me  in,  for  the  love  ©f  God  let  me  in"!' 
There  was  such  terror  in   her  voice  as  made  the  innkeeper  forgetful  of  any 
alarm  of  his  own.      lie  gave  way  before  this  terrified  women,  as  all  men  must 
yield  to  the  might  of  such  intense  emotion,  and  opening  the  door  wide,  let  her 
by  him  unquestioned. 
The  hall  was  all  ablaze  with  light.     Darrell  Markham,  Mrs.  Pecker,  and  the  ser- 
•  had  come  down  half-dressed,  each  carrying  a  lighted  candle.     The  night 
had  been  one  of  agitation  and  ex>  none  had  slept  well,  and  all  had  been 

1  bv  the  knocking. 
No  unearthly  shadow,  or  double,  or  ghost  newly  arisen  in  the  grave-clothes  of 
the.  dead,  could  have  struck  more  horror  to  these  people's  minds  than  did  the  figure 
of  Millicent  Puke,  standing  amidst  them,  with  her  pale,  dishevelled  hair,  damp 
with  the  melted  snow,  her  disordered  :  I  railing  about  her,  wet  and  blood- 

ed, her  eyes  dilated  with  the  same  look  of  horrified  astonishment  with  which 
she  had  looked  upon  the  murdered  man,  and  her  wounded  hand,  from  which  the 
handkerchief  had  dropped,  dyed  red  with  hideous  smears. 

She  sto.fld  amongst  them  for  some  momeuts,  nether  speaking  to  them  nor  look- 
ing at  them,  but  with  her  eyes  still  fixed  in  that  horror-stricken  stare,  and  her 
wounded  hand  wandering  about  her  forehead  till  her  brow  and  hair  were  dis- 
d  with  the  same  red  smears. 
With  his  own  face  blanched  to  the  ghastly  hue  of  hers,  Darrell  Markham 
looked  at  his  cousin,  powerless  to  speak  or  question  her.  Sarah  Pecker  was  -the 
first  to  recover  her  presence  of  mind. 

'Miss  Milly,'  she  said,  trying  to  take  the  distracted  girl  in  her  arms,  'what  is 
it '(     What  has  happened  ?     Tell  me,  dear.' 

At  the  sound  of  this  familiar  voice,  the  fixed  eyes  turned  towards  {\\q  speaker, 
and  .Millicent  Duke  burst  into  a  long,  hysterical  laugh. 
■  My  God  !'  cried  Darrell,  'that  man  has  driven  her  mad  !' 
'  Yes,  mad,'  answered  Millicent,  '  mad  !     Who  can  wonder  ?     lie  is  murdered. 
I  saw  it  with  my  own  eyes.     His  throat  cut  from   car  to  ear,  and  the  red  blood 
Blowly  from  the  wound  to  join  that-black  pool  upon  the  floor.     Oh! 
Darrell,  Sarah,  have  pity  upon  me,  have  pity  upon  me,  and  never  let  me  enter 
that  dreadful  house  again  !' 

She  fell  on  her  knees  at  their  feet,  and  held  up  her  clasped  h; 
'Be  calm,  dear,  be  calm,'  said  Mrs.  Pecker,  trying  to  lii't  her  from  the  ground. 
.  darling,  you  are  with  :;  you — with  Master  Darrell,  and  with 

your  faithfn)  old  Sally,  and  with  all  fri  (  you.     What  is  it,  dear  ?     Who 

.rdered  V 
. '  George  Duke.' 


100  DARRELL  MARKHAM;  OR 

'  The  Captain  murdered  !  But  who  could  have  done  it,  Miss  Milly  ?%  Who 
could  have  done  such  a  dreadful  deed  V 

She  shook  her  head  piteously,  but  made  no  reply. 

It  was  now  for  the  first  time  that  Darrell  interfered.  '  Take  her  up  stairs,'  he 
said  to  Mrs.  'Pecker,  in  an  undertone.  '  For  Gk>d's  sake  take  her  away.  Ask  her 
no  questions,  but  get  her  away  from  all  these  people,  if  you  love  her.' 

Sarah  obeyed  ;  and  between  them,  they  carried  Millicent  to  the  room  in  which 
Darrell  had  been  sleeping.  "  A  few  embers  still  burned  in  the  grate,  and  the  bed 
was  scarcely  disturbed,  for  the  young  man  had  thrown  himself  dressed  upon  the 
outside  of  the  counterpane.  On  this  bed  Sarah  Pecker  laid  Millicent,  while  Dar- 
rell with  his  own  hands  re-lighted  the  fire.  . 

On  entering  the  room  he  had  taken  the  precaution  of  locking  the  door,  so  that 
they  we're  sure  of  being  undisturbed ;  but  they  could  hear  the  voices  of  the  agi- 
tated servants  and  the  inn-keeper,  loud  and  confused  below. 

Mrs.  Pecker  occupied  herself  in  taking  off  Millicent's  wet  shoes,  and  bathing 
her  forehead  with  water  and  some  reviving  essence. 

'  Blood  on  her  forehead  !'  she  said,  '  blood  on  her  hand,  blood  on  her  clothes ! 
Poor  dear,  poor  dear  !  what  can  they  have  been  doing  to  her  ?' 

Darrell  Markham  laid  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder,  and  the  inn-keeper's  wife 
could  feel  that  the  strong  man  trembled  violently. 

<  Listen  to  me,  Sarah,'  he  said ;  '  something  horrible  has  happened  at  the  Hall. 
Heaven  only  knows  what,  for  this  poor  distracted  girl  can  tell  but  little.  I  must 
go  down  with  Samuel  to  see  what  is  wrong.  Remember  thisT  that  not  a  creature 
but  yourself  must  come  into  this  room  while  I  am  gone.     You  understand  V 

'  Yes,  yes !'  * 

'  You  will  yourself  keep^watch  overjmy  unhappy  cousin,  and  not  allow  another 
mortal  to  see-  her  ?' 

'  I  will  not,  Master  Darrell.' 

*  And  you  yourself  will  refrain  from  questioning  her;  and  should  she  attempt  to 
talk,  check  her  as  much  as  possible  V 

'  I  will — I  will,  poor  dear/  said  Sarah,  bending  tenderly  over  the  prostrate 
figure  on  the  bed. 

Darrell  Markham  lingered  for  a  moment  to  look  at  his  cousin.  It  wa3  difficult 
to  say»whether  she  was  conscious  or  not;  her  eyes  were  half  open,  but  they  had  a 
lustreless,  unseeing  look,  that  bespoke  no  sense  of  that  which  passed  before 
them.  Her  head  lay  back*  upon  the  pillow,  her  arms  powerless  at  her  sides,  and 
she  made  no  attempt  to  stir  when  Darrell  turned  away  from  the  bed  to  leave  the 
room. 

'  You  will  come  back  when  you  have  found  out V 

1  What  has  happened  yonder  ?     Yes,  Sarah,  I  will.' 

He  went  down  stairs,  and  in  the  hall  found  one  of  the  village  constables,  who 
lived  near  at  hand,  and  who  had  been  aroused  by  an  officious  ostler,  anxious  to 
distinguish  himself  in  the  emergency. 

'Do  you  know  anything  of  this  business,  Master  Darrell  ?'  asked  this  man.- 
'  Nothing  more  than  what  these  people  about  here  can  tell  you,'  answered  Dar- 
rell.    '  I  was  just  going  down  to  the  Hall  to  see  what  had  happened.' 

1  Then  I'll  go  with  your  honour,  if  it's  agreeable.     Fetch  a  lantern,  somebody.' 
The  appeal  to  'somebody'  being. rather  vague,  everybody  responded  to  it;  and 


..  •  TEE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE.  101 

all  the  lanterns  to  be  found  in  the  establishment  were  speedily  placed  at  the  dis- 
.  posal  of  the  constable. 

That  functionary  selected  one  for  himself,  and  handed  another  to  Darrell. 

'Now,  then,  Master  Markham,'  he  said,  'the  sooner  we /start  the  better.' 

Neither  of  the  two  men  spoke  to  each  other  on  the  way  to  the  Hall,  except 
once,  when 'the  constable  again  asked  Darrell  if  he  knew  anything  of  this  busi- 
ness, and  Darrell  again  answered,  as  he  had  answered  before,  that  he  knqw  no- 
thing of  it  whatever. 

4  We  shall  have  difficulty  enough  to  get  in/  said  Darrell,  as  they  groped  their 
way  towards  the  terrace,  'for  the  only  servant  I  saw  in  the  house  was  a  deaf  old 
woman,  and  I  doubt  if  Mrs.  Duke  aroused  her.' 

'  Then  Mrs.  Duke  ran  straight  out  of  the  house  when  the  deed  was  done,  and 
came  to  the  Black  Bear  V 

1 1  believe  so.' 

4  Strange  that  she  did  not  run  to  nearer  neighbors  for  assistance.     The  Bear  is- 
upwards  of  a  mile  and  a  half  from  here,  and  there  are  houses  within  a  quarter  of 
a  mile.' 

Darrell  made  no  reply. 

'  See  yonder,'  said  the  constable  ;  '  wc  shall  have  no  difficulty  about  getting  in 
— there  is  a  door  open  at  the  top  of  those  steps.' 

He  pointed  to  the  half  glass  door  of  the  garden  room,  which  Millicent  had  left 
ajar  when  she  fled.  The  light  streaming  through  the  aperture  threw  a  zigzag 
streak  upon  the  snow-covered  steps. 

The  sfiow  still  falling,  for  ever  falling  through  that  long  night,  blotted  out  all 
ibot-prints  almost  as  soon  as  they  were  made. 

*  Do  you  know  in  which  room  the  murder  was  committed,  Master  Darrell  V 
asked  the  constable  as  they  went  up  the  steps. 

'  I  know  nothing  but  what  you  know  yourself.' 

The  constable  pushed  open  the  half-glass  door  and  the  two  men  entered  the 
room. 

The  candle,  burned  down  to  the  socket  of  the  quaint  old  silver  candlestick, 
stood  where  Millicent  had  lefr,  it  on  a  table  near  the  window.  The  tapestry  cur- 
tain, flung  aside  from  the  door  as  she  had  flung  it  in  her  terror,  hung  in  a  heap 
of  heavy  folds.  The  dark  pool  between  the  bed  and  the  fire-place  had  widened 
and  spread  itself,  but  the  hearth  was  cold  and  black,  and  the  bed  upon  which 
George  Duke  had  lain  was  empty. 

It  was  empty.  The  pillow  on  which  his  head  had  rested  was  there,  stained  red 
with  his  blood.  The  butt-end  of  the  pistol,  on  which  his  fingers  had  lain  when 
he  fell  asleep  was  still  visible  beneath  the  pillow.  Red,  ragged  stains  and  streaks 
of  blood,  and  one  long  gory  line  which  marked  what  way  the  stream  had  flowed 
towards  the  dark  pool  on  the  floor,  disfigured,  the  bed-clothes;  but  beyond  this 
there  was  nothing. 

,  *  He  must  have  got  off  the  bed  and  dragged  himself  into  another  room,'  said 
the  constable,  taking  the  candle  fron^his  lantern  and  sticking  it  into  the  candle- 
stick left  by  Millicent;  <we  must  search  the  house,  Mr.  Markham.' 

Before  leaving  the  garden  room,  he  bolted  the  half-glass  door,  and  then,  followed 
by  Darrell,  went  out  into  the  corridor. 

They  searched  every  room  in  the  great,  dreary  house,  but  found  no  trace  of 


102  DARRELL  MARKHAM ;   OR 

Captain  George  Duke,  of  the  good  ship  Vulture.  The  sharp'  eyes  of  the  consta- 
ble took  note  of  everything,  and  amongst  other  things  of  the  half-open  drawer  in 
the  bureau  in  the  room  which  Milliceut  had  last  occupied.  In  this  half-open 
drawer  lie  found  nothing  but  the  case  of  razors,  which  he  quietly  put  into  his 
pocket.    . 

*  What  do  you  want  with  those  V  Parrell  asked.  • 

1  There's  blood-stains  upon  one  of  them,  Mr.  Markham.  They  may  be  wanted 
when  this  business  comes  to  be  looked  into.' 

In  one  of  the.  smaller  rooms  they  came '  upon  the  old  woman,  Mrs.  Meggis, 
snoring  peacefully,  happily  ignorant  of  all  that  had  passed,  and  as  there  seemed 
little  good  to  be  obtained  from  awakening  her,  they  left  her  to  her  slumbers. 

Throughout  the  house  there  was  no  sign  of  plunder  nor  of  violence,  save  the 
pool  of  blood  in  the  garden  chamber  above. 

'Whoever  has  done  this  business/ said  the  constable,  looking  gravely  about 
him,  and  pointing  to  the  plate  upon  the  sideboard,  '  is  no  common  burglar. 

'You  mean ' 

'  I  mean  that  if  hasn't  been  clone  for  gain.  There's  something  more  than  plun- 
der at  the  bottom  of  this.' 

They  went  once  more  to  the  garden  room,  and  the  constable  walked  slowly  round 
the  chamber,  looking  at  every  thing  in  his  way. 

'  What's  come  of  the  Captain's  clothes,  I  wonder  V  he  said,  rubbing  his  chin, 
and  staring  thoughtfully  at  the  bed. 

It  was  noticeable  that  no  vestige  of  clothing  belonging  to  Captain  Gorge  Duke 
was  left  in  the  apartment.  i       • 


GHAPTEH  XIX.— After  the  Muri 

They  grey  January  morning  dawned  late  and  cold  upon  Coinpton-ort-the-Moor. 
The  snow  still  falling,  ever  falling  through  the  night,, had  done  strange  work  in 
the  darkness.  It  had  buried  the  old  village,  and  left  a  new  one  in  its  stead.  An 
indistinct  heap  of  buildings  with  roof-tops  and  gable-ends  so  laden  with  snow,  that 
the  inhabitants,  of  Compton  scarcely  knew  the  altered  outlines  of  their  own  houses. 

A  murder  had  beeu  done  at  Comptou-on-the-Moor.  At  that  simple  Cumbrian 
village,  whose  annals  until  now  had  been  unsustained  with  this,  the  foulest  of 
crimes,  a  murder  had  been  done  in  the  silence  of  the  long  winter's  night,  beneath 
that  white  and  shroud-like  curtain ^of  thick  falling  snow — a  murder  so  wrapped 
in  mystery,  that  the  wisest  in  Compton  were  baffled  in  their  attempts  to  under- 
stand its  meaning. 

With  the  winter  dawn  every  creature  in  Compton  knew  of  the  deed  that  had 
been  done.  People  scarcely  knew  how  they  heard  of  it,  or  who  told  them;  but 
every  lip  was  busy  with  conjecture,  and  every  face  was  charged  with  solemn  im- 
port, as  who  should  sa}r,  '  I  am  the  syie  individual  in  the  place  who  knows  the  real 
story,  but  I  have  my  instructions  from  higher  authorities,  and  I  am  dumb.' 

The  constable  had  taken  up  his  abode  at  the  Hall  for  the  time  being,  and  sat 
in  the  little  oaken  parlour  in  solemn  state,  holding  conference  now  and  again  with 
the  semi-officials  in  his  employ,  who  were  bi  -;:ng  to  the  current  belief  of 

Compton,  looking  for  the  body. 


THE  GAPTAIX  OF  THE  VULTURE.  103 

• 

Under  this  prevailing  impression,  the  s,emi-official.s  had  rather  a  hard  time  of  it, 
as  whenever  they  emerged  from  the  Hall  gates  they  were  waylaid  and  seized  upon 
by  some  anxious  Comptonian,  eager  to  know  '  if  they  had  found  it.' 

The  anxiety  about  the  missing  body  of  the  murdered  man  was  the  strong 
point  in  the  Compton  interest.  Busy  volunteers  made  unauthorized  search  for  it 
in  every  unlikely  direction.  In  chimney-corners  and  cupboards  of  unoccupied 
houses,  iu  out-buildings,  pigsties,  and  stables;  in  far-away  fields  where  they  went 
waist  deep  iu  snow,  and  wore  in  imminent  peril  of  altogether  disappearing  iu  un- 
looked-for pit-falls;  in  the  church-yard  ;  'nay,  some  of  the  most  sanguine  spirit.-' 
went  so  far  as  to  request  berag  favored  with  the  keys  of  the  church  itself,  in  order 
that  they  might  look  for  Captain  Duke  in  the  vestry  cupboard,  where  a  skillful 
-in  might  have  hidden  him  behind  the  curate's  surplice. 

The  constable  had  been  at  the  "Black  Bear  early  that  morning  to  ask  for  a-u  in- 
terview with  Mrs.  George  Duke,  in  order  to  hear  her  statement  about  the  murder, 
but  Sarah  kept  watch  aud  ward  .over  Millicent,  and  she  and  Darrell  and  the  vil- 
lage surgeon  all  protested  agains-t  the  unhappy  girl  being  questioned  until  she  ha/1 
•ii  some  way  recovered  fix>m  the  mental  shock  which  had  prostrated  her;  so  the 
constable  was  lain  to  withdraw,  after  whispering  some  directions  to  one  of  the 
semi-officials,  "who,  red-nosed,  blue-lipped,  and  shivering,  hung  about  the  Black 
Bear  all  that  day. 

Millicent  was  indeed  in  no  state  to  be  questioned.  She  lay  ip  the  same  dull  stupor 
into  which  she  had  falfen  between  three  and  four  o'clock  that  morning.  Sarah 
Pecker  aud  Darrell  Markham,  watching  her  tenderly  through 'the  day,  could  not 
tell  whether  she  was  conscious  of  their  presence.  .  She  never  spoke,  but  sometimes 
tossed  her  head  from  side  to  side  upon  the  pillow,  moaning  wearily.  It  was  a 
cruel  and  a  bitter  day  of  trial  to  Darrell  Markham.  He  never  stirred  from  his 
place  by  the  bedside,  only  looking  up  every  now-  and  then,  when  Sarah  returned 
alter  leaving  the  room  to  ascertain  what  was  going  ou  down  stairs,  to  ask  anxiously 
if  anything  had  been  discovered  about  the  murder — if  they  had  fouud  the  assas- 
sin or  the  body 

It  was  quite  dark,  when  the  constable,  after  locking  the  doors  of  the  principal 
rooms  in  the  old  house,  and  putting  the  keys  in  his  pockets,  gave  strict  directions 
to  Mrs.  Meggis  to  admit  no  one,  and  to  keep  the  place  securely  barricaded.  By 
dint  of  considerable  perseverance,  he  contrived  to  make  the  -old  woman  under- 
stand him  to  this  extent,  and  then  -nodding  good-naturedly  to  her,  left  her  for 
the  night,  happily  ignorant  of  what  had  been  so  lately  d6ne  beueath  the  roof 
that  sheltered  her.  , 

From  the  Hall,  Hugh  Martin,  the  constable,  walked  straight  to  a  mansion  about 
half-a-mile  distant,  which  was  inhabited  by  a  certain  worthy  gentleman  and  county 
magistrate,  called  Montague  Bowers.  A  very  different  man  to  that  magistrate 
before  whom  Darrell  Markham  charged  Captain  Duke  with  highway  robbery  seveu 
years  before. 

In  the  private  sitting-room,  study,  or  sanctum   sanctorum  of  this  Mr.   Bom 
Hugh  Martin,  the   constable,  made  his  report,  detailing  every  particular  of  his  ' 
day's  work.     '  I've  done  according  as  you  agreed  upon  this  morning,  sir/  lie  suid  ; 
'  I've  waited  out  the  day,  and  kept  all  dark,  taking  care  to  keep  my  eye  upon  'em 
up  yonder;  but  I  can't  see  any  way  out  of  it  but  one,  and  I  uon:t  think  v 
any  'course  but  tcf  do  as  we  said 


204  DARRELL  MARKHAM;  OR 

Hugh  Martin  was  closeted  with  the  justice  Tor  a  considerable  time  after  this,  and 
when  he  left  the  residence  of  Mr.  Bowers,  he  hurried  off  at  a  brisk  pace  in  the 
direction  of  the  village  and  through  the  high  street  to  the  door  of  the  Black  Bear. 
In  the  wide  open  space  befo.re  that  hostelry,  he  came  upon  a  man  lounging  in  the 
bitter  night,  as  if  it  had  been  some  pleasant  summer's  evening,  whose  very  atmos- 
phere was  a  temptation  to  idleness.  This  man  was  no  other  than  the  red-nosed, 
and  blue-lipped  semi-official,  who  had  been  lounging  about  the  neighborhood  of 
the  inn  all  that  day.  He  was  a  constable  himself,  but  so  inferior  in  position  to 
the  worthy  Mr,  Hugh  Martin,  that  he  was  only  looked  upon  as  an  assissant  or  ' 
satellite  of  that  gentleman.  Useful  in  a  fray  with  poachers,  to  "be  knocked  down 
with  the  butt-end  of  a  gun  before  the  real  business  of  the  encounter  began ;  good 
enough  to  chase  a  refractory  youngster  who  had  thrown  pebbles  at  the  geese  in 
the  vjllage-pond,  or  to  convey  an  erratic  donkey  to  safe-keeping  in  the  pound,  or 
to  induct  a  drunken  brawler  in  the  stocks,  but  fit  for  nothing  of  a  higher 
character. 

*  All  right,  Bob  V  asked  Mr.  Hugh  Martin  of  this  gentleman. 
•'  Quite  right.' 

4  Anybody  left  the  inn  V 

■ '  Why,  Pecker  himself  has  been  in  and  out,  up  and  down,  and  here  and  there, 
gabbling  and  chatting  like  an  old  magpie,  but  that's  all,  and  he's  safe  enough  in 
the  bar  now.' 

1  Nobody  else  has  left  the  place?'  • 

<  Nobody.' 

'  That's  all  right "  Keep  on  the  lookout  down  here,  and  if  1  open  one  of  those 
windows  overhead  and  whistle,  you'll  know  you  are  wanted.' 

The  appearance  of  the  constable  created  intense  excitement  amongst  the 
loungers  at  the  bar  of  the  Black  Bear.  They  gathered  round  him,  so  eager  for 
information  that  between  them  they  very  nearly  knocked  him  down. 

What  had  he  discovered  ?  Who  had  done  it '(  What  had  been  the  motive  ? 
Had  he  found  the  weapon  ?  Had  he  found  the  body  ?  Had  he  found  the 
murderer  ? 

Mr.  Hugh  Martin  pushed  all  these  eager  questioners  aside  without  any  won- 
derful ceremony,  and,  walking  straight  to  the  bar,  addressed  Samuel  Pecker. 

1  Mr.  Markham  is  upstairs,  is  he  not  ?'  he  asked. 

4  He  is  in  the  blue  room,  poor  dear  gentleman.' 

4  With  the  lady — his  cousin  V 

'Yes.' 

'Then  I'll  just  step  up-stairs,  Pecker,  for  I've  a  few  words  to  say  to  him  abefut 
this  business.' 

The  bystanders  had  gathered  so  close'  about  Mr.  Martin  as  to  contrive  to  hear 
every  syllable  of  this  brief  dialogue. 

1  He  has  found  out  all  about  it,'  they  said,  when  the  constable  went  up-stairs, 
'  and  he's  gone  to  tell  Mr.  Markham — very  proper,  very  right,  of  course.' 

In  the  blue  room  Millicent  Duke  sat  with  her  fair  head  resting  on  Sarah 
Pecker's  ample  shoulder,  on  a  great  roomy  sofa  drawn  close  up  to  the  fire,  against 
which  stood  a  table,  with  a  tea-tray  and  old  dragon  china  cups  .and  saucers.  On 
the  opposite  side  of  the  fire-place  sat  Darrell  Markham,  his  eyes  still  fixed 
upon  his  cousin  with  the  same  look  of  anxious  watchfulness  that  had  marked  -his 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE.  105- 

lace  all  that  clay.  Milliccnt  had  recognized  them,  and  talked  to  them  during 
the  last  half  hour,  and  had  told  them  the  brief  story  of  the  night  before.  How 
she  had  gone  to  George  Duke's  thamber  with  the  intention  of  making  an  appeal 
to  his  mercy,  and  how  she  had  found  him  with  his  throat  cut  from  car  to  ear — 
dead !  •  • 

Sarah  had  taken  off  Mrs.  Duke's  blood-stained  dress,  and  wrapped  her  in  some 
garments  of  her  own,  which  hung  about  her  slender  figure  in  thick  clumsy  folds  j 
but  the  hideous  stains  had  been  removed  from  her  hands  and  forehead,  and  there 
was  nothing  now  about  her  to  tell  of  the  horrors  through  which  she  had  passed. 
She  had  told  them  nothing  of  her  wounded  hand,  and  indeed  had  spokon  inco- 
herently at  the  best,  for  her  fragile  spirit  had  received  a  shock  from  which  it  was 
not  easy  for  her  to  recover. 

Still  she  was  mending  last,  Mrs.  Pecker  said;  and  sitting  with  her  head  on 
Sarah'*  shoulder,  in  the  light  of  the  cheerful  fire,  with  the  comfortable  array  of 
teacups  and  the  shining  silver  teapot  on  the  table  before  her,  it  was  almost  dffi- 
cult  to  believe  that  four-aud-twenty  hours  had  not  yet  passed  since  she  had  fled 
from  the  roof  that  sheltered  her  murdered  husband. 

Mrs.  Pecker  was  holding  a  teacup  to  Millicent's  lips,  imploring  her  to  drink, 
when  Darrell  Markham  started  from  his  chair,  and  running  to  the  door,  listened 
to  some  sound  without. 

'  What's  that  V  he  exclaimed. 

It  was  the  tramp  of  a  man's  footstep  upon  the  stair,  the  footstep  of  Mr.  Hugh 
Martin,  the  constable. 

Darren's  face  grew  even  paler  than  it  had  been  all  that  day ;  he  drew  back, 
holding  his  breath,  terribly  calm  and  white  to  look  upon.  The  constable  tapped 
at  the  door,  and,  without  waiting  for  an  answer,  walked  in. 

Hugh  Martiir  carried  a  certain  official-looking  document  in  his  hand.  Armed 
with  this,  he  walked  straight  across  the  room  to  the  sofa  upon  which  Milliccnt 
sat, 

1  Mrs.  Millicent  Duke,'  he  said,  '  in  the  King's  name  I  arrest  you  for  the  wilful 
murder  of  jour  husband,  George  Duke.' 

Darrell  Markham  flung  himself  between  his  cousin  and  the  constable. 

'  Arrest  her  1'  he  cried ;  l  arrest  this  weak  girl,  who  was  the  first  to  bring  the 
tidings  of  the  murder !' 

4  Softly,  Mr.  Markham,  softly,  sir,'  answered  the  constable,  opening  the  nearest 
window,  and  whistling  to  the  watcher  beneath.  I  am  sorry  this  business  ever  fell 
lo  my  lot ;  but  I  must  do  my  duty.  My  warrant  obliges  me  to  arrest  you  as  well 
as  Mrs.  Duke.' 


CHAPTER  XX.— Committed  for  Trial. 

Milliccnt  and  Darrell  were  taken  to  a  dreary,  dilapidated  building  called  the 
lock-up,  very  rarely  tenanted  save  by  some  wandering  vagrant,  who  had  bxen 
found  guilty  of  the  offence  of  having  nothing  to  cat ;  or  some  more  troublesome 
delinquent,  in  the  way  of  a  poacher,  who  had  been  taken  in  the  act  of  appropri- 
ating the  hares  and  pheasants  of  a  neighbouring  preserve. 


106  DARRELL  MARKHAM;  OR 

To  this  place  Hugh  Martin,- the  constable,  and  his  assistant,  Dob,  conducted 
gentle  and  delieateiy-nurtured  Mrs.  George  Duke;  and  the  only  one  privilege 
which  the  entreaties  of  Darrell  and  Sarah  Pecker  could  obtain  for  her  was  the 
constable's  permission  to  Sally  to  stop  all  night  in  the  cell  with  the  female 
prisoner.  % 

Darrell  prayed  Hugh  Martin  to  take  them  straight  to  the  house  of  Mr.  Mon- 
tague Dowers,  that  any  examination  which  had  to  take  place  might  take  place 
that  very  night ;  but,  the  constable,  shook  his  head  gravely,  and  said  that  Mr. 
Dowers  had  made  up  his  mind  to  wait  till  morning. 

Millicent,  lying  on  a  truckle  bed  beneath  the  window  and  listening  to  the 
passing  footsteps,  remembered  how  often  she  had  gone  by  that  dismal  building, 
and  how  utterly  unmindful  she  had  been  of  those  within.  She  shuddered  as 
she  looked  at  the  ragged  damp  stains  on  the  plaster  walls,  that  made  themselves 
into  ugly  faces  in  the  uncertain  flicker  of  a  rush-light,  remembering  how  many 
helpless  creatures  must  have  lain  there  through  long  winter  nights  like  this,  con- 
juring hideous  faces  from  the  same  crooked  lines  and  blotches,  and  counting  the 
cobwebs  hanging  from  the  roof. 

Mrs.  Pecker,  wrapped  in  a  grey  woollen  cloak,  sat  on  a  wooden  stool  by  the  bed- 
side, with  her  head  wresting  on  Millicent's  wretched  straw  pillow.  She  had  com- 
pletely worn  herself  wit  with  protestations  agiiinst  the  .arrest,  and  was.  fain  to 
keep  silence  from  sheer  exhaustion. 

1  Oh,  Miss  Milly,  Miss  Milly,  said  Sally,  if  I  had  only  been  with  you  last 
night/  she  said;  M.had  half  a  mind  to  come;  down  to  the  Hall  after  Mr.  Darrell 
left  you ;  but  I  knew  I  was  no  favorite  with  Captain  Duke,  and  I  thought  my 
coming  might  only  make  him  angry  against  you/ 

The  last  footfall  died  away  upon  the  snow,  the  last  dini  light  faded  out  in  the 
village  street,  the  long  winter  night,  seeming  almost  eternal  to  the  two  women, 
wore  itself  out,  and  the  cheerless  daybreak  showed  a  wan  and  ghastly  face  at  the 
barred  casements  of  Comp'ton  jail. 

A  little  after  eight,  Plugh  Martin,  the  constable,  unbolted  the  door  of  the  cell, 
and  tapped  against  the  rotten  woodwork  for  permission  to  enter. 

He  found  Millicent  sitting  on  the  edge  of  .the  truckle  bed,  dressed  and  ready 
to  accompany  him.  Her  cheeks  and  lips  were  bloodless,  and  her  eyes,  encircled 
by  purple  shadows,  seemed  to  have  grown  larger  since  the  night  of  the  murder : 
but -she  was  perfectly  collected.  The1  constable,  moved  with  pity  for  her  youth 
and -gentle  nature,  had  brought  her  a  dish  of  warm  tea;  which  she  drank  pa- 
tiently and  gratefully,  though  cveiy  drop  seemed  to  choke  her.  She  asked  sev- 
eral questions  about  Darrell  Markham,  and  told  the  constable  that  her  cousin 
could  have  little  difficulty  in  proving  his  innocence,  as  he  had  left  the  Hall  long 
before  the  commission  of  the  murder ;  but  she  said  nothing  whatever  of  herself, 
or  of  the  injustice  of  the  charge  made  against  her. 

A  coach,  hired  from  the  Dlack  Dear,  carried  the  .  two  prisoners  to  the  magis-. 
trate's  hovtse^  but  Hugh  Martin  took  good  care  that  Darrell  and  his  cousin  were 
kept  apart,  the  young  man  sitting  on  the  box  beside  the  coachman.  The  family 
wasuat  breaksastwhen  the  little  party  arrived,,  and  the  prisoners  heard  the  pleas- 
ant prattle  pi' children's  voices,  as  they  were  ushered -through  the  Hall  into  the 
magistrate's  study.  A  grim  chamber  this  Hall  of  audience"  lighted  by  two  nar- 
row windows  looking  out  upon  the  stables,  and  furnished  with   stiff,  high-backed 


.ti:  y  the  tultl  107 

oaken  chairs,  ponderous  tables,  and  a  solemn- faced. clock,  calculated  to  strike  ter- 
ror to  the  heart  of  a  criminal. 

Here  Millicent  sud  Darrell,  with  Hugh  .Martin  the  constable,  and  .Sarah  Pecker, 
waited  for  Air.  Montague  Bowers,  Justice  of  the  Peace,  to  make  his  appearance. 

Hanging  about  the  Hall  and  gathered  rouud  the  door  of  this  chamber,  were 
.several' people  who  had  persuaded  themselves  into  the  idea  that  they  knew  seme- 
thing  of  the  disappearance  of  Captain  !  wen'  eager  td  serve  ike  State  by 
giving  evidence  to  that  effect.  The  ostler.,  who  had  aroused  the  constable;  haft 
a  dozen  men  who  had  helped  in  the  ineffectual  search  for  the  body  ;  a  woman  who 
had  assisted  in  conveying  Mrs.  Meggis,  the  deaf  housekeeper,  to  the  spot  that 
morning,  and  many  others  equally  unci  with  the  case  were  amongst  til 
There  was  therefore  a  general  sensation  of  disappointment  and  injury  when  Mr. 
Montague  Bowers}  coming  away  from  his  breakfast,  selected  Samuel  Pecker  from 
amongst  this  group  of  outsiders,  and -bidding  the -inn-keeper  follow  him,  walked 
into  the  chamber  of  justice,  and  closed  the  door  upon  the  rest. 

'Now,  Mr.  Pecker,'  said  the  Justice,  seating  himself  at  the  oaken  table,  and 
dipping  a  pen  into  the  ink,  'what  have  you  to  say  about  tl 

Taken  at  a  disadvantage  thus,  Samuel  Pecker  had  very  little  indeed  to  say 
about  it.  He  could  only  breathe  hard,  fidget  nervously  with  his  plaited  ruffles 
(he  had  put  on  his  Sunday  clothes  in  honor  of  the  occasion,)  and  stare  at  the  Jus- 
tice's cleric,  who  sat  pen  in  hand,  waiting  to  take  down  the  in-keeper's deposition. 

'Come,  Mr.  Pecker,'  said  the  Justice,  'what  have  you  to  state   re  the 

missing  man?' 

Samuel  scratched  his  head  vaguely,  and  looked  appealingly  at  his  wife,  Sarah; 
who  sat  by  the  side  of  .Mrs.  Duke,  weeping  audibly. 

'  Meaning  him  as  was  murdered,'  BUggested  Mr.  IV.  I 

'31c  uke/. "replied  the  Justice 

'  Ah,  but  there  it  is,' exclaimed  the' bewildered  Samuel,  (  that's  just  where  it 
is.  Captain  George  1  •uke.  A  "cry  good ;  but  which  of  them  ?  Him.  as  asked  me 
the  way  to  Marley  Water  seven  ;.  i  on  horseback  last  October?  you  re- 

member, Master  Darrell,  for  by  at  the  time/  said  the  inn-keeper,  ad- 

dressing ".  '.     'Him  as  Miss  Millicent  >aw  on  Marley 

l'icr;  by  moonKght,  when  the  clucks  were  strike  j  ime  to  the 

k  Bear  the  day  bcfoi  dayattkr  k  in  the  afternoon-;  of  him  as 

drank  and  paid  for  a  glass  of  brandy  between  eight  and  nine  that  night  and  left  a 
horse  in  i  u  .  which  has  never  been  fetched  awa 

The  busy  pen  of  the  clerk,  scratching  after  Air.  Samuel  Peel  uiedtokeep 

up  a  kind  of  race  with  that  gentleman  as  it  jotted  down  1  which  already 

occupied  half  a  page  of  foolscap. 

Mr.  Moi  .vers  .-tared  hopelessly  at  the  witness. 

'Whi  V  he  demanded,  looking  at  Sarah   and  the  two  prisoners  in  his 

r;   '  what,  in  Heaven'.-,  name,  does  it  all  mean  ?' 
[r.  Samuel  Pecker  entered  into  a  ■'. 
at  Compton-ou-the-Moor  tor  the  I  are,  not   .' 

tar,  who  stole  the  .-poous  ;  and,  in  I  out  a  fee- 

t  that  the  itinerant  might,.be  iu  v  connect  *         irddr 

of  C  Duke.     "  c  to  the  point, 

nearly  three  -  :  was  only 


l03  ■  DARRELL  MARKHAM;  OR 

by  pumping  at  him,  by  brief  and  direct  questions,  that  the "  Justice  approached 
any  nearer  to  the  object  of  the  examination. 

4  Now,  suppose  you  tell  me,  Mr.  Peckerrat  what  hour  Captain  Duke  left  your 
house  on  the  night  before  last.'        • 

'  Between  eight  and  nine.' 

'  Good,  and  you  next  saw  him V 

i  Between  nine  and  ten,  when  I  went  to  the  Hall  with  Miss  Millicent  and  Mr. 
J  lan-ell.' 

•  Did  Mrs.  Duke  and  her  husband  appear  to  be  on  friendly  terms  ?' 

To  this  question  Samuel  Pecker  made  a  very  discursive  answer,  setting  out  by 
protesting  that  nothing  could  have  been  more  affectionate  than  the  conduct  of 
Millicent  and  the  Captain ;  and  then  going  on  to  declare  that  Mrs.  Duke  had  fallen 
prostrate  upon  the  snow,  bewailing  her  bitter  fortune,  and  her  husband's  re- 
turn;  and  further  relating  how  she  had  never  addressed  a  word  to  him,  except- 
once,  when  she  suddenly  cried  out,  and  asked  him  why  he  had  come  back  to  make 
her  the  most  guilty  and  miserable  of  women. 

Here  the  inn-keeper  came  to  an  abrupt  finish,  in  no  wise  encouraged  by  the 
terrific  appearance  of  his  wife,  Sarah,  who  sat  shaking  her  head  at  him  fiercely, 
from  behind  the  shelter  of  her  apron. 

It  took  a.  long  time  thereforefore  altogether,  before  the  examination  of  Mr. 
Samuel  Pecker  was  concluded,  and  that  rather  unmanageable  witness  pumped 
completely  dry.  Enough,  however,  had  been  elicited  from  the  inn-keeper  to  es- 
tablish Darrell  Markham's  innocence  ^f  the  charge  brought  against  him,  inasmuch 
as  he  had  quitted  Comptou  Hall  in  the  company  of  Samuel,  leaving  Captain  Duke 
alive  and  well  at  ten  o'clock.  Between  that  hour  and  the  time  of  George  Duke's 
disappearance,  Millicent  and  the  deaf  housekeeper  had  been  alone  with  the  miss- 
ing man.  Montague  Bowers  [congratulated  the  young  man  upon  his  having  come 
so  safely  out  of  the  business,  but  Darrell  neither  heeded  nor  heard  him.  He  stood 
close  against  the  chair  in  which  his  cousin  sat,  watching  that  still  and  patient 
figure, "that  pale,  resigned  face,  and  thinking  with  auguish  and  terror  that  every 
word  which  tended  to  exonerate  him,  only  threw  a  darker  shadow  of  suspicion 
upon  her. 

Darrell  Markham  was  the  next  witness  examined.  All  was  revealed  in  that 
cruel  scrutiny.  The  marriage  at  St.  Bride's  church,  Kingwood's  letter,  the  return 
to  Comptou,  the  surprise  of  Captain  Duke's  reappearance,  hard  words  that  had 
been  spoken  between  the  two  men,  Millicent's  despair,  and  shuddering  horror  of 
her  husband,  and  then  the  long  blank  interval  of  many  hours,  at  the  end  of  which 
Mrs.  George  Duke  came,  white  and  distracted,  to  the* Black  Bear  to  tell  of  a  mur- 
der that  had  been  done. 

All  this  the  clerk's  busy  pen  recorded,  and  to  this  Darrell  Markham  signed  his 
name,  in  witness  of  its  truth. 

Hugh  Martin,  the  constable,  described  the  appearance  of  the  house.  The  ab- 
sence of  any  sign  of  pillage  or  violence,  the  unbroken  fastenings  of  the  heavy 
oaken  door,  the  undisturbed  plate  on  the  side-board,  and  lastly,  the  bloodstained 
razor  found  by  him  in  the  bureau. 

From  Mrs.  Meggis,  the  deaf  housekeeper,  very  little  information  of  any  kind 
could  be  extorted. 

Sarah  Pecker  was  also  examined,  but  she  could  tell  nothing  more  than  her 


•THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE.  10<^ 

husband  had  told  already,  and  she  broke  down  so^>ften  in  sobs  and  pitying  ejac- 
ulations about  her  old  master's  daughter  that  Mr.  Bowers  was  glad  to  make  the 
examination  as  brief  as  possible. 

All  these  people  duly  examined,"  their  depositions  read  over  to  them,  and  signed 
by  them,  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  done  but  to  ask  the  accused,  Millicent 
Duke,  what  she  had  to  say. 

She  told  her  awful  story  with  a  quiet  coherence,  that  no  one  there  assembled 
had  expected  from  her.  She  described  her  horror  at  the  Captain's  return,  and 
the  distracted  state  of  her  mind,  which  had  been  nigh  upon  madness  all  that  cruel 
night.  She  stated,  as  nearly  as  was  in  her  power,  the  time  at  which  she  bade 
him  good  night,  and  retired  to  the  chamber  farthest  from  the  garden  room — the 
chamber  which  had  been  her  mother's  She  grew  a  little  confused  here,  when 
asked  what  she  had  done  with  herself  between  that  time  (a  little  after  eleven 
o'clock,)  and  the  discovery  of  the  murder.  She  said  that  she  thought  she  must 
have  sat,  perhaps  for  hours,  thinking  of  her  troubles,  and  half  unconscious  of  the 
lapse  of  time.  She  told  how,  by  and  bye,  in  a  passionate  outburst  of  despair,  she 
thought  of  her  father's  old  razors  lying  in  that  very  chamber,  within  reach  of  her 
hands,  and  remembered  how  one  deep  gash  in  her  throat  might  end  all  her  sorrow 
upon  this  earth.  But. the  sight  of  the  murderous  steel,  ^ud  the  remembrauce  of 
the  sin  of  such  a  deed,  had  changed  her  purpose  as  suddenly  as  that  purpose  had 
sprung  up  in  her  heart,  and  she  thrust  the  razor  away  from  her  in  *i  wild  hurry  of 
terror  and  remorse.  Then,  with  but  little  questioning  and  with  quiet  self-posses- 
sion, she  told  how  that  other  purpose^  almost  as  desperate  us  the  first,  had  suc- 
ceeded it  in  her  mind;  and  how  she  had  determined  to  appeal  to  George  Duke, 
imploring  of  him  to  leave  her,  and  to  suffer  her  to  drag  out  her  days  in  peace. 
How,  eager  to  act  upon  this  last  hope,  she  had  gone  straight  to  his  room,  and  then- 
had  found  him  lying  murdered  ou  his  bed.  The  Justice  asked  her  if  "she  had 
gone  close  up  to  the  bedside  to  convince  herself  that  the  Captain  really  was  dead. 
No,  but  she  had  seen  the  fearful  gash  across  his  throat;  the  blood  streaming  from 
the  open  wound,  and  she  knew  that  he  was  dead. 

She  spoke  slowly,  faltering  a  little  sometimes,  but  never  embarrassed,  though 
the  clerks  pen  followed  her  every  word  as  unrelentingly  as  if  he  had  been  a  re- 
cording angel  writing  the  history  of  her  sins.  There  had  been  a  death-like  silence 
iu  the  room  while  she  told  her  story,  broken  only  by  the  scratching  of  the  clerk's 
peu  and  the  ticking  of  the  solemn-faced  clock. 

<  I  will  but  ask  you  one  more  question,  Mrs.  Duke,'  said  Montague  Bowers ; 
'  and  I  beg  you,  for  your  own  sake,  to  be  careful  how  you  answer  it.  Do  you 
know  of  any  person  likely  to  eutertdin^  feeling  of  animosity  against  your  husband  '.' 

She  might  have  replied  that  she  knew  nothing  of  her  husband's  habits,  nor  of 
his  companions.  He  might  have  had  a  dozen  enemies  whose  names  she  had  never 
heard  ;  but  her  simple  and  auileless  mind  was  powerless  to  dqal  with  the  matter 
thus,  and  she  only  answered  the  question  in  its  plainest  meaning. 

1  No ;  no  one.' 

'Think  agaiu,  Mrs.  Duke;  this  is  a  terrible  busiuess'for  you,  and  I  would  .not 
for  the  world  hurry  you  Do  you  know  of  no  one  who  had  any  motive  for  wish* 
rag  your  husband's  death?' 

'No  one,'  answered  Millicent. 

'Pardon  me,  Mr.  Bowers,'  interrupted   Parrel".,  'but  my  cou-h  forgets  t 


HO  DARRELL. MARKHAM;  OR 

you  that  the  Captain  of  the  "Culture  was  at  the  hest  a  mysterious  individual.  Ke 
would  never  have  been  admitted  into  our  family  but  for  a  whim  of  my  poor  uncle, 
who  at  the  time  of  his  daughter's  marriage  was  scarcely  account  ible  for  his  ac- 
tions. No  one  in  Compton  knew  who  George  Duke  was,  or  where  he. came  from, 
and  no  one  but  the  late  Squire  believed  him  when  he  declared  himself  to  be  a 
Captain  in  his  Majesty's  navy.  Six  years  ago  I  made  it  my  business  to  ascertain 
the  truth  of  the  matter,  and  found  that  no  such  person  as  Captain  George  Duke 
had  ever  been  heard  of  at  the  Admiralty.  Whatever  he  was,  nothing  of  his  past 
life  was' known  to  cither  his  wife  or  her  relatives.  My  cousin  Millieent  is  not 
therefore  in  a  position  to  answer  your  question.' 
■Can  you  .answer  it,  Mr.  Markham?' 

•  No  more  than  Mrs.  Duke/ 

•  \  am  sorry,  said   Mr.  Bowers,  gravely,  'very  sorry;  for  under  these  eirou'm- 

iny  duty  leaves  me  but  one  course.     I  shall  be  compelled  to  commit  Mil- 
licent  Duke  to  Carlisle  jail  for  the  murder  of  her  husband.' 

A  woman's  shriek  vibrated  through  the  chamber  as  these  words  were  said,  but 
it  came  from  the  lips  of  Sarah  Pecker,  and  not  from  the  accused.   Calm  as  if  she 

bee-!!  but  a  witness  of  the  proceedings,  Millieent  comforted  her  old  friend,*. 
imploring  her  not  to  gi\e  way  to  this  passion  of.  grief,  for  that  Providence  always 
sets  such  tilings  right  in  due  time.  -  . 

But  Sarah  jpi  -   be  comforted  so  easily.     -Xo,  Miss  Millieent,  no,' she 

said;  -Providence  has  suffered  innocent  people  to  be  hung  before  this,  and  Hea- 
ven forgive  us  all  for  thinking  so  little  about  them';  Heaven  forgive  us  for  think- 
so  little  of  the  poor,  guiltless  creatures  who  have  died  a  shameful  death.  Oh  ! 
31  r.  Parrell,'  exclaimed  Sarah,  with  sudden  energy,  'speak,  speak,  Mr.  Darrell, 
•  Samuel  Pecker,  speak  and  tell  his  worship  that  of  all  the  innocent  crea- 
tures in  the  world,  my  old  master's  daughter  is  the  most  innocent;  that  of  all  the 
tender  and  pitiful  hearts  God  ever  made,  hers  is  the  most  pitiful.  Tell  him  that 
from  her  birth  until  this  day  her  hand  was  never  raised  to  harm  the  lowliest  thing 
that  lives  ;•  how  much  less,  then,  against  a  fellow-creature's  life.  Tell  him  this.. 
Mr.  Darrell,  and  he  cannot  have  the  heart  to  send  my  innocent  darling  to  a  felon's 
jail' 

Darrell  Markham  turned  his  all  and  sobbed  aloud;  nor  did  any  of 

thoie  presenl  8<  ■  anything  unmanly  in  the  proceeding.  Even  the  clerk  was  moved 
to  compassion,  and  Something  very  much  like  a  tear  dropped  upon  the  closely- 
written  pages  of  evidence.  But,  whatever  pity  Mr.  Montague  Bowers  might  feel 
for  the  helpless  girl  sitting  before  him,  in  all  quiet  patience  and  resignation,  he 
held  to  the  course  which  he  considered  his  du^,  and  made  cut  the  warrant  which  ' 
ffas  to  commit  Millieent  Duke  to  Carlisle  prison,  there  to  await  the  spring  assizes. 

Millieent  started  when  they  told  her  that  she  would  leave  Compton  for  Carlisle 
on  as  the  only  post-chaise  in  Compton,  which  of  course  belonged  to  the  inn 
and  posting-house  kept  by  Samuel -Pecker,  could  be  prepared  for  her;  but  evinced* 
no  other  surprise  whatever.  The  written  depositions  were  folded  and  locked  in 
the  justice's  desk,  the  cle'rk  retired,  and  the  prisoner  was  left  in  the  safe  keeping 
Of  II  ugh  Martin  and  his  fellow-constable,  to  await  the  coming  of  the  post-chaise 
which  was  to  carry  her  the  first  stage  of  her  dismal  journey.  Darrell  and  Sarah 
remained  with  her  to  the  last,  only  parting  with  her  at  the  door  of  the  chaise. 
The  young  man  took  her  in  his  arms  before  he  lifted  her  into  the  vehicle,  and 
pressed  his  lips  to  her  coid  forehead. 


TEE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE.  m 

'  Listen  to  me,  Millicent;  my  beloved  and  my  darling,'  he  said,  'and  keep  the 
memory  of  my  words  with  you  in  your  trouble,  for  trust  me  they*are  no  idle  ones. 
I  dedicate  my  life  to  the  solution  of  this  mystery ;  I  will  neither  rest  day  nor 
night  till  I  have  found  the  real  criminal,  and  cleared  the  spotless  name  of  my 
darling.  Remember  this,  Millicent,  and  fear  nothing.  Remember,  also,  that  I 
have  powerful  friends  in  London,  who,  if  need  be,  will  help  me  to  save  your  life.' 
He  kissed  her  once  more  before  he  lifted  her  into  the  vehicle.  In  the  last 
glimpse  which  Darrell  and  Sarah  had  of  her,  she  was  sit'ing  quietly,  with  Hugh. 
Martin  by  her  side,  looking  out  at  them  through  the  window  of  the  chaise. 

The  dusky  afternoon  closed  about  the  horses  as  they  galloped  off,  the  wheels  of 
the  vehicle  crashing*  through  the  snow,  and  she  was  gone. 

■    The  crowd  gathered  muni  the  gates  of  the  justice's  mansion  followed  her  to 
the  last  with  white,  sympathi:  .  and  then  walked  slowly  homeward  through 

the  gathering  twilight,  to  talk  about  the  murder. 

The  saamination  of  those  few  witnesses  who  could  throw  any  light  upon  the 
•t  had  occupied  nearly  the  whole  of  the  short  winter's  day.  Monti 
Bowers  was  exhausted  and  weary  when  he  joined  his  family* at  the  fin 
the  prattle  oi'  his  children  seemed  almost  discordant  in  his  ea#  after  the  things 
he  had  heard  that  day.  One  child,  his  favorite  and  eldest  daughter, a  fair-haired 
girl  of  twelve,  was  very  anxious  to  hear  the  particulars  of  the  day's  business ;  and 
he  hung  about  him,  asking  him  pil  stions  about  Mrs.  Puke,  he  could 

but  remember  that.  Millicent' s  face  ha  to  him  almost  as  childlike  and  in- 

nocent as  that  now  uplifted  to  his  own. 

It  was  to  be  observed  that  neither  Millicent,  nor  the  old  woman.  Mrs.  Mi 
had  made  any  allusion?  to  the  stranger  who  called  at  the  Hall  a  few  hours  before 
the  discovery  of  the  murder.  The  truth  was,  that  this  circumstance,  being  ap- 
parently unconnected  with  the  terrible  event  of  the  night,  had  been  completely 
blotted  our  of  the  addled  brain  of  the  dcvA'  housekeeper,  as  well  as  from  the  mind 
of  Mrs.  Duke. 


CHAPIER  XXI. — I  [gn-looking    Pedlar  I  m>  Visit 

Bla<  k  Bear. 

Three  days  after  al  to  Carlisle,  an  unlooked-for  visitor  made 

his  appearance' at  the  Black  Rear.     This  visitor  was  no  less  a  personage  than  the 
•country  baronet,  whom  Sarah  Pecker  had  last  seen   close  against  the  doors 
of  St,  Church,  London.' 

This  distinguished  guest  arrived  in  the  dusk  of  the  evening  by  the  Marley  Wa- 
ter coach,  alone  and  unattended,  but  wearing  the  flaxen  wig  and  velvet  coat,  the 
■d  hilt  aud  military  boots,  wifh  clanking  spurs,  and  all  those  brave- 
ries, that  had  made  such  an .  impression  at  the  Black  Bear  a  short  time  P  I  • 
His  coining  was  in  itself  a  surprise;  but  at  the  first  question  he  asked  he  struck 
consternation  and  astonishment  into  the  minds  of  all  who  heard  him. 

I  up  to  the  bar,  where  Samuel  Pecker  sat  in  an  attitude  of  me- 
lam:.  ring  at  the  fire,  the  west-country  baronet  inquired  if  his 

iric  lb  Duke,  had  left  any  message  for  him. 

vered  by  tl  o  mention  of  this  nf.me,  which;  since  the 


H2  DARRELL  MARKHAM  ;  OR 

murder,  seemed  to  carry  a  ghastly  significance  of  its  own,  had  only  strength  to 
murmur  a  feeble*  negative. 

{  Then/  said  Captain  Fanny,  '  I  consider  it  d — d  unhandsome  of  him  !' 

He  looked  so  fiercely  at  Samuel,  that  the  landlord,  being,  as  we  know,  of  a  ner- 
vous temperament,  began  to  think  that  he  might  be  in  some  way  accountable  for 
Captain  Duke's  shortcomings,  and  felt  himself  called  upon  to  apologize.   . 

'  Why  the  truth  of  the  matter  is,  sir,'  he  stammered,  faltering  under  the  light 
of  the  west-country  baronet's  shifting  black-eyes ;  '  that  when  people  have  their 
throats  cut  in  their  sleep — no  notice  being  given  as  to  it's  going  to  be  done — 
they're  apt  to  leave  these  little  matters  unattended  to.' 

'  People  have  their  throats  cut  in  their  sleep  !'  echoed  the  highwayman.  '  What 
people ?     Whose  throat  has  been  cut  ?     Speak,  man,  can't  you !' 

The  fiery  young  man  made  as  if  he  would  have  sprung  across  the  bar,  and 
seized  upon  Samuel,  in  order  to  wring  the  tardy  answer  from  his  lips.  ■Samuel 
warded  him  off  by  an  imploring  gesture. 

'  I>on't  be  violent/  he  said  ;  '  please  don't  be  violent.  We've  been  a  good  deal 
shook  by  what's  been  going  forward  these  last  few  days  at  Compton.  My  wife, 
Sarah,  keeps  hef  bed  ;  an<j  my  nerves,  never  being  overmuch,  are  of  very  little 
account  just  now.     Give  me  time,  and  I'll  explain  everything.' 

'  Give  you  time,  man,'  cried  Captain  Fanny;  '.can't  you  answer  a  straight  ques- 
tion without  beating  about  the  bush  for  an  hour?     Whose  throat  has  been  cut?' 

'  Captain  Duke's.' 

'  Captain  Duke  ? — George  Duke  ?'    • 

'  Christian  and  surname  quite  correct.     Yes  ' 

'  Captain  Duke  has  had  his  throat  cut  ?' 

'  From  ear  to  car  !'■ 

'  Where  ? — when  ?' 

1  At  Compton  Hall — on  the  night  of  his  return. 

'  And  that  was ;  V  - 

'  Five  nights  ago.' 

*  Good  heavens  !  this  is  most  extraordinary/  exclaimed  Captain  Fauny.    '  George 
Duke  returned  five  nights  .since,  and  murdered  upon  the  very  night  of  his  return 
But  by  whom — by  whom'/' 

■f  AIT,  there  it  is/  cried  Samuel,  piteously ;  '  that's  what  has  upset  everybody  at 
Compton,  including  Sarah,  who  took  to  her  bed  the  day  before  yesterday,  never 
before  having  been  a  day  out  of  the  business  since  she  first  set  foot  in  the  Black 
Bear,  everything  at  sixes  and  sevens,  and  Joseph,  the  waiter,  always  the  most 
sober  of  men.  while  Sarah  kept  the  keys,  drunk  two  nights  running,  and  shedding 
tears  about  poor  Mrs.  Duke,  as  is  now  in  Carlilse  jail.' 

'  Mrs.  Duke  in  Carlisle  jail  V 

1  Yes,  for  the  murder  of  her  husband,  which  never  harmed  a  fly/  said  Samuel', 
with  more  sympathy  than  grammar. 

'  Mr.s.  Duke  accused  of  her  husband's  murder?' 

1  Yes,  poor  dear  !     How  should  she  do  it,  I  should  like  to  know ;  and  if  she 
did  it,  where's  the  body-?     How  can  there  be -a  murder  without  a  body?'  ex- 
claimed Samuel,  returning  to  that  part  of  the  question  which  had  always  been  too 
b   for  him  ;  '  why,  the  very  essence  of  a  murder  is  the  body.     What  is  the 
worst  inconvenience  to  the  murderer  ?     Why,  the  body  !     What  leads  to  the  (lis- 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE.  'H3 

covery  of  the,  murder  ?  Why,  the  body  !  What's  the  good  of  coroner's  juries  ? 
Why,  to  sit  upon  the  body  !  Then  how  can  there  be  a  murder  without  a  body  ? 
It's  my  belief  that  Captain  Duke  is  alive  and  well,  hiding  somewhere — may  be 
nigh  at  hand  at  this  very  place — and  laughing  iu  his  sleeve  to  think  of  his  poor 
wife  being  suspected  of  making  away  with  him.  He's  wicked  enough  for  it,  and 
it  would  be  only  like  him  to  do  it.' 

Captain  Fanny  was  silent  for  a  few  moments,  thinking  defply. 

'  Strange — strange — strange,'  he  said,  rather  to  himself  than  to  the  innkeeper ; 
'  some  men  are  unlucky  from  the  first,  and  that  man  was  one  of  'em.  Murdered 
on  the  night  of  his  return  ;  on  the  very  night  on  which  he  thought  to  have  fallen 
into  a  good  thuig.     Strange!' 

'  Don't  say  murdered,'  remonstrated  Samuel ;  '  say  missing.' 

1  Missing  or  murdered,  it's  pretty  much  the  same,  if  he  never  comes  back,  man. 
Then,  supposing  Mrs.  Duke  to  be  tried  and  found  guilty,  the  Compton  property 
will  go  to  the  Crown  ?' 

'  I  suppose  it  will,'  answered  Samuel ;  '  these  sort  of  things  generally  falls  to 
the  Crown.     The  Crown  must  feel  an  uncommon  interest  in  murders.' 

'  Now,  look  you  here,  Samuel,'  said  the  distinguished  guest ;  '  the  best  thing 
you  can  do  is  to  bring  a  couple  of  bottles  of  wine  with  you,  and  show  me  the  way' 
to  a  snug  sitting-room,  where  you  can  tell  me  all  about  this  business.' 

The  innkeeper  desired  nothing  better  than  this.  He  had  sprung  into  popu- 
larity, and  had  risen  iu  public  appreciation  in  a  most  sudden  apd  almos^miracu- 
lous  planner  siuce  the  murder  at  Compton  Hall,  and  the  examination  before 
Justice  Bowers,  in  which  he  had  played  so  prominent  a  part.  Visitors  at»  the 
TClack  Bear,  who  before  this  event  had  openly  despised  his  intellectual  powers, 
laying ,dowu  the  law  to  him,  and  over-ridiug  him  upon  every  possible  subject,  now 
hung  deferentially  upon  his  every  word,  accepting  each  new  version  of  his  story, 
and  encouraging  him  to  the  utmost  in  all  that  richness  of  detail  and  embellish- 
ment with  which  he  found  it  necessary,  from  time  to  time,  to  adorn  his  narrative. 
And  now  he  found  himself  called  upon  to  relate  the  story  to  no  less  a  person 
than  the  elegant  west-country  baronet,  whose  appearauce  was  in  itself  enough  to 
set  the  Black  Bear  in  a  flutter  of  excitement. 

Sarah  Becker  had  been  the  keystone  of  this  simple  domestic  arch  at  the  Black 
Bear  ;  and  without  her  the  whole  edifice  fell  to  ruin.     The  honest  creature,  unable 
to  bear  up  against  that  bitter  parting  with  her  old  master's  daughter,  had  taken- 
to  her  bed,  and  lay  there,  refusing  to  be  comforted. 

1  If  there  was  any  mortal  thing  in  this  wide  world  I  could  do  to  help  my  poor 
darling,'  she  sobbed,  as  Samuel  feebly  attempted  to  console  her,  'I  think  I  could 
bear  up  through  it  all ;  but  I  can't  do  anything — to  save  her  one  pang  in  this 
bitter  trouble.  They  wont  let  me  be  with  her  in  jail — the  cruel,  hard-hearted 
wretches — and  there's  no  help  but  to  wait  till  the  trial  comes  on — two  dreary 
months  yet — and  pray  to  God  meanwhile  to  save  the  innocent.  There's  nothing 
to  be  done  but  this,  and  Heaven  knows  I  do  pray  night  and  day  ;  but  it  seems  so 
little  to  do,  so  little  to  do,  for  my  poor  dear.' 

So  Sarah  ke^t  her  bed;  careless  of  what  riot  and  destruction  might  be  going  on 
below  stairs,  forgetful  of  every  old  habit  of  prudence  and  frugality,  far  too  ill  to 
remember  these  things,  and  only  able  to  take  a  few  spoonsfull  of  the  broths  and 
slops  which  Betty  the  cook  sent  up  to  her  sick  mistress. 


114  DARRELL  MARKHAM ;  OR 

Poor  Sarah  had  no  stronger  mind  on  which  to  lean  for  consolation  than  that  of 
her  husband  Samuel,  for  Darrell  Markham  had  quitted  the  Black  Bear  upon 
the  night  of  Millicent's  removal  from  Compton,  leaving  a  brief  note  addressed 
to  Mrs.  Pecker,  and  worded  thus : 

'Bear  Sarah, — I  leave  you  on  an'  errand  which,  I  trust  in  Providence,  may 
save  my  poor  Millicent#  I  shall  be  absent  little  better  than  a  week.  Tell  those 
who  may  ask  any  questions  about  me  that  I  have  but  gone  to  visit  friends  a  few 
miles  from  Compton.     Keep  up  your  heart,  and  pray  for  my  afflicted  darling. 

'Darrell  Mark,ham.' 

Invalid  though  Mrs.  Pecker  was,  she  was  not  destined  to  remain  long  undis- 
turbed, for  upon  the  very  night  on  which  Sir  Lojrel  Mortimer  arrived  at  the 
Black  Bear  to  keep  that  appointment  with  his  friend  Captain  Duke,  which  death 
had  stepped  in  to  break,  there  came  another  and  an  equally  unexpected  visitor  to 
the  head  inn  of  the  quiet  Cumbrian  village. 

Samuel  and  Captain  Fanny  were  still  drinking  and  talking  in  the  sitting-room 
ab^ove  stairs ;  Sarah  lay  awake  listening  to  the  sign  before  the  inu  door  flapping 
to  and  fro  in  the  night  wind;  and  Betty,  the  cook,  waiting  lest  the  distinguished 
visitor  in  the  white  parlour  should  require  supper,  sat  by  the  fire  in  the  kitchen, 
nodding  every  now  and  then  over  the  grey  worsted  stocking  she  was  trying  to 
darn.  Presently  tine  hand  armed  with  the  needle  dropped  by  her  side,  her  head 
fell  forward  upon  her  ample  bosom,  and  Betty,  the  cook,  fairly  gave  up  the 
struggle,  and  fell  fast  asleep. 

She  seemed  to  have  enjoyed  a  slumber  of  some  hours,  during  which  she  had 
dreamed  strange  and  complicated  dreams.  •  > 

A  dark  figure  stood  close  against  the  threshold,  so  muffled  in  the  garments  it 
wore,  and  so  shrouded  by  the  hat  slouched  over  its  eyes,  that,  though  there  was 
a  feeble  new  moon  glimmering  bluely.over  the  roofs  of  stables  and  outbuildings, 
the  visitor,  whoever  he  might  be,  was  not  easily  to  be  recognized.  The  heart  of 
Betty,  the  cook,  sank  within  her,  and  a  deadly  chill,  commencing  at  that  indis- 
pensable organ,  crept  slowly  up  to  the  roots  of  her  hair. 

It  would  have  been  some*  relief  now  to  have  screamed,  but  the  capacity  for 
that  useful  exercise  was  gone,  and  the  terrified  woman  could  only  stand  staring 
blankly  at  the  figure  on  the  threshold. 

How,  if  this  should  be  that  horrible  shadow  or  double  of  Captain  George 
Duke,  which  had  appeared  three  times  before  the  murder  ? 

It  had  come,  no  doubt,  to  show  the  way  to  the  biding-place  of  the  body,  as  is 
a  common  practice  with  the  ghosts  of  murdered  men,  and  it  had  selected  Betty 
as  the  proper  person  to  assist  in  the  search. 

Even  in  the  agony  of  her  terror  a  vision  of  triumph  floated  upon  the  mind  of 
this  simple  countrywoman,  and  she  could  but  remember  how  she  would  doubt- 
less rise  in  the  estimation  of  all  Compton  after  such  an  adventure.  But  as  an 
humble-minded  member  of  the  corporation  will  sometimes  refuse  some  civic 
honour,  as  a  weight  too  ponderous  for  him  to  bear,  so  Betty,  not  feeing  equal  to 
the  occasion,  sacrificed  the  opportunity  of  future  distinction,  and  souuded  the 
prelude  of  a  long  scream. 

Before  she  could  get  beyond  this  prelude,  a  heavy  baud  was  clapped  upon  her 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VL'LTU:-:   '  .      H5 

open  mouth,  and  a  gruff  voice  aaked  her  what  she  meant  by  making  such  a  d — d 
fool  of  herself. 

Betty  took  courage,  and,  drawing  a  long  breath  of  relief,  asked  her  visitant 
what  his  business  was,  arid  if  he  wasn't  ashamed  of  bimself  for  turning  a  poor 
girl's  '  whole  mask  of  blood.'  Not  deigning  to  enter  into  any  discussion  upon 
this  remarkable  physical  operation,  the  stranger  pushed  the  cook  aside,  and  strode 
past  her  into  the  great  Kitchen,  dimly  lighted  by  the  expiring  fire  and  one 
guttering  tallow  candle. 

Relieved  from  her  first  terror,  Betty  was  now  able  "to  perceive  that  this  was  a 
taller  and  bigger  man  than  George  Duke,  and  that  his  figure  bore  no  resemblance 
whatever  to  that  of  theniurdercd  sailor. 

He  stood  with  his  back  to  the  hearth,  slowly  unwinding  a  great  woolen  shawl 
from  his  neck,  when  she  followed  him  into  the  kitchen.  This  done,  he  threw  off 
his  hat,  poshed  his  great  hand  through  his  short  grizzled  hair,  and  stared  defiantly 
nt  the  girl. 

The  stranger  was  the.  foreign-looking  pedlar  who  had  robbed  Mrs.  Pecker  of 
her  watch,  purse,  and  silver  spoons,  in  that  very  kitchen,  six  years  before.  Yes, 
he  was  the  foreign-looking  pedlar,  but  by  no  means  the  same  prosperous  indi- 
vidual he  had  appeared  at  that  period.  A  gamut,  terrible,  half-starved  vagabond 
stood  upou  that  hearth,  where  once  had  stood  the  smart  and  prosperous  foreign 
pedlar. 

Betty  was  preparing  to  begin  scream  number  two,  when  he  thrust  his  hand 
suddenly  into  his  pocket,  and  taking  thence  a  great  clasped  knife,  exclaimed 
fiercely  : 

'  As  sure  as  I  stand  here,  woman,  if  you  lift  your  voice  above  a  whisper,  I'll 
put  such  a  mark  upon  that  throat  of  yours  as  will  stop  your  noise  forever.  .  Sit' 
you  down  there/  he  said,  pointing  to  the  chair  upon  which  Betty  had  dropped 
her  work  when  she  rose  to  open  the  door.  '  Sit  you  down  there,  my  lass,  and 
answer  the  questions  I've  got  to  ask — or '  Betty  dropped  into  the  chair  in- 
dicated as  submissively  as  if  she  had  been  before  Mr.  Montague  Bowers,  Justice 
of  the  Peace,  and  quietly  awaited  his  pleasure. 

She  felt  that  she  had  done  her  duty,  and  that  she- could  do  no  more. 

1  Where's  your  missus,  my  lass  V  asked  the  pedlar. 

•  111  a  bed.' 

'  And  your  master-?' 

Betty  described  Samuel'*,  whereabouts.  ' 

'  So,'  muttered  the  man,  '  your  missus  is  ill  a-bed,  and  your  master  is  in  the 
white  parlour  drinking  wiue'with  a  gentlemau.     '  What  gentleman  V 

Betty  was  not  particularly  good  at  remembering  names,  but  after  considerable 
reflection  she  said  that,  if  she  recollected  right,  the  gentlemau  was  called  Sir 
Lovel  Summat. 

The  pedlar  burst  into  a  big  laugh — a  harsh  aud  hungry  kind  of  cachinatiou, 
which  seemed  to  come  from  a  half-starved  frame. 

'  Sir  Level  Summat,'  he  said  ;  '  it  isn't  Mortimer,  is  it?' 

'  Yes,  it  is,'  replied  Betty. 

The  pedlar  laughed  again.  '  Sir  Lovel  Mortimer,  is  it?  Well,  that's  strange  ! 
Very  strange,  that  df  all  nights  out  of  the*  three  hundred  aud  sixty  odd  as  gj  to  a 
year,  Sir  Lovel  should  pick  this  night  for  being  at  Compton-ou-thc-Moor.  Has 
he  cfteu  been  here  before?' 


HQ  DARRELL  MARKUAM;  OR 

\  Never  but  once  ;  and  that  was  last  Christmas.' 

'And  he's  here  to-night.  It's  a  strange  world.  I  know  Sir  Lovel  Mortimer; 
and  Sir  Lovel  Mortimer  knows  me — intimately.'  Betty  looked  rather  incredulous 
at  this  assertion.  '  Ah,  you  may  stare,  my  lass  !'  muttered  the  pedlar;  '  but  it's 
Gospel  truth  for  all  that.  I  suppose  this  barrowknight  of  yours  wears  a  fine  gold- 
laced  coat  now,  don't  he  V 

\  It's  silver  lace/  the  girl  answered  ;  l  and  the  handle  0f  his  sword  shines  like 
diamonds.'  .    • 

The  pedlar  laughed  and  flung  himself  into  a  chair,  which  creaked  beneath  his 
weight,  reduced  as  he  was. 

'Look  you  here,  missus  cpok,'  he  said,  '  talking's  poor  work  on  an  empty 
stomach,  and  I  haven't  had  a  •  mouthfnl  to  put  in  mine  since  the  break  of  this 
cold  winter's  day ;  so  I'll  trouble  you  for  a  bit  of  victuals  and  a  drop  of  drink 
before  we  go  on  any  further.'  Seeing  something  like  hesitation  in  the  girl's  face, 
he  brought  his  hand  heavily  down  on  the  table  with  a  terrible  oath. 

'Fetch  me  what  I  want,'  he  reared;  'd'ye  hear?  Do  you  think  there's 
anything  in  this  house  that  I  can't  have  for  the  asking  V 

In  her  confusion  and  terror  she  brought  a  strange  selection  of  food  from  the 
well-stocked  pantry.  He  ate  with  sueh  savage  rapidity  that  the  immense  amount 
of  food  lasted  a  very  short  time,  and  then  pushing  the  dish  away  from  him  with 
a  satisfied  grunt,  he  gasped  fiercely  the  one  word,  '  Brandy.' 

Betty  shook  her  head.  She  explaimed  to  him  that  drink  of  any  kind  was 
impossible,  as  the  bar  was  locked  and  the  key  in  her  master's  possession. 

'  You're  a  nice,  hospitable  lot  of  people,'  said  the  pedlar,  rubbing  his  hand 
across  his  greasy  mouth ;  '  and  you  know  how  to  make  folks  comfortable  that  have 
come  from  foreign  parts  on  purpose  for  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  Now,  look 
you  here ;  it's  double  business  that  has  brought'  me  all  tfie  way  from  the  county 
of  Hampshire  to  Compton-on-the-Moor,  and  that  business  is  first  and  foremost  to 
see  your  missus 5  and  secondly,  to  meet  a  friend  as  I  parted  company  with  above 
a  fortnight  back,  and  as  promised  to  meet  me  here,  but  I  expeet  I've  got  here 
before  him.  Now,  that  friend  is  a  gentleman  bred  and  born,  and  his  name  is 
Cap'en  George  Duke,  of  the  Vulture.' 

•  Betty,  the  cook,  clasped  her  hands  imploringly.  '  Don't,'  .she  cried,  'don't! 
This  makes  two  this  blessed  night ;  for  him  as  is  up  stairs  said  he  came  here  by 
appointment  with  the  murdered  gentleman.' 

'  What  murdered  gentleman  V     Betty  told  the  story  which  had  bean  so  often 
told  withih  the   last  five   days.     Told   it  in   rather  a  gasping  and  unintelligible  • 
manner,  but  still- with  sufficient  clearness  to  make  the  pedlar  acquainted  with  the 
one  great  fact  of  the  Captain's  murder. 

'  His  throat  cut  from  ear  to  ear  on  the  very  same  night  as  he  came  back,'  said 
the  man ;  '  that's  an  awkward  business.  He'd  better  have  stopped  where  he 
was,  I  reckon.  So  there  was  no  money  took,  nor  plate,  and  his  pretty  young 
wife  is  in  Carlisle  jail  for  the  murder — that's  a  queer  story.  I  always  thought 
George  Duke  had  the  devil's  luck  and  his  own  too,  but  it  seems  that  it  failed  him 
at  last.' 

Now,  the  reader  may  perhaps  remember  that,  on   h  easing  of  the  murder,  Cap- 
tain Fanny  had  made  an  observation   to  the  eifect  that  the  murdered*  man  had  ' 
been  an  unlucky  fellow  from  first  to  last,  proving  thereby  How  much  the  opinions 
of  two  people  may  differ  upon  a  given  subject. 


THE  CAPTAIN'  OF  THE  VC'LTURE.  117 

1  So  Cap'en  Duke  is  murdered — a  bad  look  out  for  me  !'  muttered  the  pedlar  ; 

*  for  I  had  a  hold  upon  my  gentleman  as  would  have  made  his  house  mine,  and 
his  purse  mine  to  the  end  of  my  days,  I'd  best  see  your  missus,  without  losing 
any  more  time,  my  lass.  Is  her  room  anywhere  nigh  the  parlour  where  your 
muster  and  the  barrownight's  a  sittin'  ?' 

'  No  ;  missus's  room  is  at  the  other  oud  of  the  corridor.' 

'  Then  go  and  tell  he*  that  him  as-  come  here  six  winters  ago,  and  took  the 
littla  present  as  she  was  kind  enough  to  give  him,  has  come  back,  and  wants  to 
see  her  without  loss  of  time.'  The  girl  shuddered,  but  obeyed,  after  one  brief, 
distrusting  glance  round  the  kitchen.     The  man  saw  the  glance  and  laughed. 

•  There's  no  spoons  about,'  he  said,  '  as  I  cau  see,  even  if  I  had  a  mind  to  take 
'em.     Look  sharp  and  tell  your  missus.' 

Sarah  Pecker  lay  awake,  with  a  great  bible  open  upon  the  table  by  her  bed. 
She  lifted  her  head  from  the  pillow  as  Betty  ran  breathless*  into  the  room,  for  she. 
saw  from  the  girl's  face  that  something  had  happened. 

•  Again  !'  she  cried,  when  the  cook  had  told  her  of  the  man  waiting  below : 
1  again  !  How  cruel,  how  cruel,  that  he  should  come  at  such  a  time  as  this,  wheu 
my  mind  is  full  of  the  thoughts  of  poor  Miss  Millicent,  and  when  I've  been 
praying  night  and  day  for  something  to  happen  to  clear  her  dear  name.  It  does 
seem  hard.' 

'  There's  many  things  in  this  life  that  seems  hard,'  said  a  voice  close  against 
the  half-open  door,  as  the  gaunt  pedlar  strode  unceremoniously  into  the  room. 

•  Starvation's  hard,  and  a  long  tramp  through  the  snow  with  scarce  a  shoe  to  your 
foot  is  hard,  and  empty  pockets  is  hard,  and  many  things  more  as  I  could  men- 
tion. You  may  go,  young  woman,'  he  added,  addressing  himself  to  Betty,  and 
pointing  to  the  door,  'you  may  go;  and  remember  that  what  I've  got  to  say  is 
more  interesting  to  your  missus  than  to  you,  so  you've  no  need  to  listen  outside; 
but  just  keep  a  lookout,  and  give  us  warning  if  either  your  master  or  his  guest. 
leave  the  white  parlour.  You  understand  ;  so  go.'  Lest,  after  all,  she  should 
fail  in  comprehending  him,  he  laid  his  rough  hand  upon  that  particular  part  of 
In  r  anatomy  commonly  called  the  scruff  of  the  neck,  and  put  her  outside  the 
room.  This  done,- he  locked,  the  door,  walked  across  the  chamber,  and  seated 
himself  deliberately  in  an  arm  chair  by  the  sick  woman's  bed. 

'  Well,  Mistress  Sally,"  he  said,  staring  about  the  room   as  he  addressed  Mi- 
Pecker,  as  if  looking  for  any  article  of  value  that  might  lurk  here  and  there  in  .' 
the  shadowy  light,  '  I  suppose  you  scarcely  looked  to  see  me  in  such  trim  as  this  t' 
He  held  up  his  gaunt  arm  and  shook  the  torn   coat-sleeve  and  the  wretched  n 
of  a  shirt,  to  draw  her  attention  to  the  state  of  his  garments. 

'  1  scarcely  looked  to  see  you  at  all  after  these  six  years,'  she  said  meekly. 

'  Oh,  you  didn't.  Mistress  Pecker,  as  I  believe  they  call  you  hereabout1-  ?  No 
thanks  to  you  lor  the  compliment  you  paid  my  good  sense.  FoU  thought  that 
after  happening  to  eome  by  chance  into  this  part  of  the  country,  and  finding  you 
living  in  clover  in  this  place,  with  money  put  by  in  the  bank,  maybe,  and  sir 
plate,  and  the  Lord  knows  what — you  thought  as  I  was  Bucfa  i  precious  fool,  after 
all  thi.s,  as  to  take  about  fifteen  pound  worth  of  property,  and  go  away 
Dtejd,  and  stay  away  for  six  years.     You  thought  all  that,  did  you.  my  lady?' 

•  I  thought,'  she  said  falteringly,  '  I  thought  you  Blight  !><•  pitiful  enough, 
knowing  what *I  had  suffered  from  you  in  years  -•  igthatk       I 


ll§  DARRELL  MAR&HAM  ;  OR 

pleased  Providence  to  make  me  happy  at  last — I  thought  even  jour  hard  heart 
might  have  taken  compassion  upon  me,  and  that  you  would  have  been  content  to 
.  take  all  I  had  to  give,  and  to  have  gone  quietly  away  forever.' 

The  pedlar  looked  at  her  with  a  fierce,  scornful  smile.  He  lifted  his  arm  for 
the  second  time,  and  this  time  he  pushed  back  the  rags  and  showed  his  wasted 
flesh.  '  Does  this  look  as  if  I  should  have  compassion  on  you  ?'  he  cried  sav- 
agely; '  on  you,  wallowing  here  in  comfort  and  luxury,  with  good  food  to  eat, 
and  good  wine  to  drink,  and  fires  to  warm  you,  and  clothes  to  wear,  and  money  in 
your  pocket  ?  Why,  if  I  was  to  sit  here  from'  now  until  daylight  talking  to  you, 
I  could  never  make  you  understand  what  I've  passed  through  in  the  six  infernal 
years  since  I  last  came  to  this  place.' 

'  You've  been  away  at  sea  V 

1  Never  you  mind  where*  I've  been.  I  haven't  been  where  men  learn  pitiful- 
ness,  and  compassitfn,  and  such  fine  sentiments^  as  you've  just  been  talking  of. 
I've  been  where  human  beings  are  more  dangerous  to  each  other  ^han  savage 
beasts;  where  men  use  their,  knives  oftener  than  their  tongues ;  and  where,  if 
ever  there  was  a  bit  of  love  or  pity  in  a  poor  wretch's  heart,  it  gets  trampled  out 
and  changed  to  hate.     That's  where  I've  been.' 

'  And  you've  come  here  to  me  to  ask  for  money,'  said  Sarah,  looking  i|huddcr- 
jngly  at  the  man's  gloomy  face. 

*  Yes/ 

'  How  much  will  do  ?  • 

{  A  hundred  pound.' 

She  shook  her  head  despairingly.  '  I  haven't  thirty,'  she  said  ;  '  every  farthing 
i-  have  is  in  that  box  yonder  on  the  chest  of  drawers  with  the  brass  handles.  The 
key's  in  the  pocket  of  the  gown  that's  hanging  on  the  bed-post.  You  can  take 
what  there  is,  and  welcome ;  but  I've  no  more.' 

'  But  you  can  get  more/  answered. the  man;  '  you  can  ask  Mr.  Samuel  Pecker/ 

*  No,  no  !' 

'  You  won't  ask  him  V 

<  Not  for  one  penny.' 

'  Then  I  will ;  I'll  ask  him  fast  enough,  and  I'll  tell  him — ' 

'  Oh,  Thomas,  Thomas  !'  She  raised  her  hands  "imploringly  and  clung  about 
him,  as  if  to  stop  him  from  uttering  some  dreaded  word  ;  but  he  flung  her  back 
upon  the  pillow.  \  I'll  tell  him  that  I'm  your  lawful  husband,  Thomas  Mas- 
terson,  and  that  at  one  word  from  me  you'll  have  to  pack  out  of  this  house,  and 
tramp  wherever  I  please  to  take  you.' 

For  a  moment  she  lay  back  upon  the  pillow,  her  whole  frame  rent  with  a  tem- 
pest of  sobs.  Then  suddenly  raising  herself,  she  looked  the  man  full  in  the  face, 
and  said  deliberately,  '  Tell  him,  then,  Thomas  Masterson  !  Tell  him  as  you're 
my  lawful  husband  as  deceived  and  deluded  me  when  I  was  a  poor,  ignorant 
girl — as  beat  and  half-starved  me — as  took  me  away  from  friends  and  home. 
Tell  him  that  you're  my  lawful  husband,  as  .  took  my  one  and  only  child  away 
from  me  while  I  Was  asleep,  and  as  stayed  away  for  seventeen  long  years  to  come 
and  claim  me  when  I  was  a  good  man's  happy  wife.  Tell  him  that  you're 
Thomas  Masterson,  smuggler  and  thief.  But  let  me  tell  you  first  that  if  you 
dare  to  come  between  him  and  me,  I'll  bring  those  up  against  you  as  will  make- 
y'ou  pay  a  dear  price  for  yqur  cruelty/  • 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE.  219 

'  You've  your  old  high  spirit,  Mrs.  Sarah,  he  said  ;  '  and  even  sickness  hasn't 
taken  it  out  of  you.     You  won't  ask  Samuel  Pecker  for  the  money  V 

'Not  for  one  farthing.' 

'  Suppose  you  wanted  the  money  for  some  whim  of  your  own,  do  you  think 
he'd  refuse  it  to  you  ?' 

'I  know  he  wouldn't.' 

'  Suppose  I  had  a  secret  to  sell,  and  wanted  a  hundred  pounds  for  the  price  of 
it,  would  you  raise  the  money  ?' 

1  A  secret?'" 

'  Yes.  You  spoke  just  now  of  your  son,  as  you  were  so  uncommon  fond  of. 
Suppose  I  could  tell  you  where  he  is — within  easy  reach  of  you — would  you  give 
me  a  hundred  pounds  for  the  information?' 

4 1  know  you,  Thomas  Masterson,'  she  said ;  '  it's  poor  work  to  try  and  deceive  me.' 

'Look  here/  answered  the  pedlar;  'you're  uncommon  suspicious  to-night;  but 
I  know  if  you  take  your  Bible  oath  you  wont  break  it.  Swear  to  me  upon  this 
book,  that  if  I  tell  you  where  your  son  is,  and  bring  him  and  you  together,  you'll 
let  me  have  the  hundred  pounds  within  a  week  !' 

He  closed  the  Bible  and  placed  it  indier  hands ;  she  pressed  her  lips  upon  the 
cover  of  the  volume. 

'  1  swear,'  she  said,  '  by  this  blessed  book.' 

'  Yery  good.  Your  son  is  now  sitting  with,  Samuel  Pecker  in  the  parlour  at 
the  other  end  of  the  corridor.  He  calls  himself  Sir  Lovel  Mortimer;  but  his 
friends, 'companions,  and  the  Bow-street  runners  call  him  Captain  Fanny,  and  he 
is  one  of  the  most  notorious  highwaymen  that  ever  played  fast  and  loose  with 
Jack  Ketch.' 


CHAPTER  XXII.— Mother  and  Son. 

Samuel  Pecker  and  his  guest,  seated  over  their  wine  in  the  white  palour,  be- 
tween the  hours  of  eleven  and  twelve,  were  startled  by  the  violent  ringing  of  the 
bell  communicating  with  Sarah's  bedchamber.  Samuel  was  too  good  a  husband 
not  to  recognize  the  vibration  of  that  particular  bell.  Without  stopping  to  apolo- 
gize to  his  distinguished  visitor,  he  hurried  from  the  room  aad  along  the  corridor 
to  Sarah's  chamber.,  The  pedlar  had  left  this  apartment  under  the  care  of  Bett}r, 
who  had  been  ordered  by  ?drs.  Pecker  to  find  the  gaunt-looking  wanderer  sleeping 
room  in  one  of  the  garrets  in  the  roof,  or  in  some  loft  over  the  stable.  Thomas 
Masterson  declared  himself  little  scrupulous  as  to  where  he  slept,  so  that  he  had  a 
mattress  or  a  heap  of  straw  to  lie  upon,  and  room  to  stretch,  Jiis  legs. 

Sarah  was  alone,  therefore,  when,  the  landlord  entered  the  room  in  answer  to 
the  loud  summons  on  the  bell. 

The  invalid,  seated  up  in  bed,  stared  wildly  at  him  as  he  showed  his  fright- 
ened face  upon  the  threshold  of  thfc  do.or. 

'  Samuel,'  she  said,  clasping  her  hands  upon  her  forehead,  as  if  to  steady  the 
bewilderment  of  the  brain  within,  *  have  I  been  mad  or  dreaming  '.'  Who  have 
yon  ynder  in  the  white  parlour'?'  •  / 

'  The  gentleman  that  came  at  Christmas,  Sarah  ;  thi  □ '   • 

'The  eyes;  the  restless,  restless  black   eyes,  like   my  baby's,'  cried  Sarah,  in  a 


120  DARRELL  MARKHAM;  OR 

voice  that  was  almost  a  shriek.     '  I  ought  to  have  known  him   by  his  [eye,?.     I 
ought  to  have  known ' 

'  Sarah/  he  said,  '  Sarah,  what  is  it  V 

'The  eyes,'  she  repeated;  '  the  eyes  of  the  child  you've  heard  me  tell  of;  the 
child  I  lost  long  before  I  knew  you,  Samuel ;  the  child  whose  cruel  father  was  my' 
first  husband,  Thomas  Masterson.' 

'  But  what  of  him  to-night,  Sarah  V 

'  Ay,  what  of  him  to-night/  she  repeated,  wildly,  pushing  the  hair*t?ff  her  fore- 
head with  both  her  feverish  hands ;  '  what  of  him  to-night  ?  Who  is  there  in 
the  white  parlour  ?' 

1  Sir  Lovel  Mortimer/  answered  Samuel. 

'  Sir  Lovel  Mortimer,  known  to  his  friends,  companions,  and  the  Bow-street 
runners,  as  Captain  Fanny/  said  Sarah,  slowly,  repeating  the  words  of  T-hbmas 
Masterson ;  '  let  me  see  him.' 

(  Let  me  see  him/  she  repeated. 
'    '  See  hjrn — Sir  Lovel  Mortimer — the  west-country  baronet  ?' 

'The  youth  with  the  black  eyes;  the  poor  uuhappy  boy;  the — let  me  see  him. 
let  me  see  him.' 

Samuel  shrugged  hjs  shoulders  hopelessly  We  know  that  he  was  a  'simple  and 
faithful  creature.  If  his  sick  wife  had  asked  him  to  carry  the  moon  to  her  bed- 
side, he  would,  no  doubt,  have  made  some  feeble  effort  to  gratify  her.  It  was  a 
small  thing,  then,  to  shuffle  along  the  corridor  and  request  the  baronet  to  visit 
the  invalid's  chamber.  Sir  Lovel  might,  perhaps,  be  skilled  in  blood-letting  and 
pharmacy,  as  some  country  gentlemen  were  in  those  days,  and  might  be  able  to 
reduce  this  terrible  fever  and  delirium. 

Indeed,  it  seemed  as  if  his  presence  had  some  soothing  influence  upon  the  sick 
woman,  for  Sarah  quietly  motioned  him  to  a  sPat  by  her  bedside,  and  then  turn- 
ing with  a  white  but  tranquil  face  to  Samuel  Pecker,  bade  him  leave  the  room. 

Being  left  alone  with  the  young  highwayman,  she  lay  perfectly  still  for  some- 
moments,  looking  earnestly  at  the  handsome  face  dimly  illuminated  by  the  candle 
burning  on  the  table  near  the  bed.  Capcain  Fanny  had  been  too  well  accustomed 
to  meet  with  adventures  in  the  erratic  course  of  his  short  life  to  be  much  affected 
by  the  fancy  of  a  sick  woman ;  he  sat,  therefore,  very  quietly,  playing  with  his 
sword-hilt,  and  waiting  Sarah's  pleasure  to  speak. 

But  the  invalid  lay  so  long  in  silence,  gazing,  ah,  Heaven  knows  with  what 
vague  materual  love  and  yearning,  at  the  sharp  profile  of  that  young  face,  worn 
thin  with  many  a  midnight  hrawl  and  revel,  that  at  last  the  restless  gentleman 
fairly  lost  patience. 

'  I  don't  suppose.you  sent  for  me  for  the  pleasure  of  staring  at  me,  ma'am/  he 
said.  '  I'm'  no  ill-looking  fellow,  perhaps  ;  "but  I'm  not  like  the  waxen  images  in 
Westminster  Abbey,  only  good  to  be  looked  at.  It's  getting  late,  and  I've  had  a 
weary  dajr  of  it/  he  added,  with  a  yawn ;  '  have  you  nothing  to  say  to  me  V 

I  Much,  much  ;  so  much  that  it's  hard  to  tell  how  to  begin.' 

The  young  man  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  fell  to  staring  at  the  showy  rings 
upon  his  white  hands.  •        .  * 

I I  have  heard  ill  news  to-night/  said  Sarah,  slowly ;  '  sorrowful  news  of  au 
only  child  that  I  thought  was  dead  and  gone.' 

Captain  Fanny  made  no  reply.  He  thought  the  speaker's  wits  were  bewildered, 


'  THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  mLTURE  lL'i 

and  that  it  was  best  to  let  her  have  her  say  without  making  any  attempt  ,to  ques- 
tion or  contradict  her.  But  the  next  words  she  uttered  brought  the  blood  to  his 
face  and  set  his  heart  (which  was  not  that  ef  a  cpward,)  beatiug  at  a  gallop. 

'There  has  been  one  here  to-night,'  she  said,  '  who  has  told  me  who  and  what 
you  are.' 

'You  know  me,  then?'  • 

'Yes;  you  are  a  highwayman,  and  they  call  you  Captain. Fanny.' 

He  clutched  her  wrist  in  his  thin,  nervous  hand.     '  You'll  not  peach  upon  me?" 

'  Of  all  the  creatures  upon  this  wide  earth,'  she  sai'd,  '  T  should  be  the  last  to 
do  that.' 

.'  Not  that  it  would  so  much  matter,'  he  muttered,  speaking  not  to  Sarah,  but  to 
himself.  '  A  few  months,  maybe  a  few  weeks,  more  or  less.  It  wouldn't  matter, 
if  it  wasn't  for  Jack  Ketch.' 

He  put  his  fingers  to  his  throat,  and  trifled  nervously  with  his,  laced  cravat,  as 
if  he  already  felt  the  coarse  hands  of  the  hangman,  and  the  rope  about  his  neck. 

'  Henry  Alastersou,'  said  the  sick  woman,  'tell  me  where  and  how  your  life  has 
been  spent.' 

She  called  him  by  a. name  which  he  had  not  heard  for  seventeen  years,  and  the 
faint  hectic  flush  faded  away  from  his  hollow  cheeks,  leaviug  them  as  white  as  the 
coverlet  upon  Sarah's  bed.  'You  wonder  that  I  know  your  name,'  said  Mrs. 
Pecker ;  '  but,  oh,  my  boy,  my  boy,  the  wonder  was  that  when  I  saw  you  this 
Christmas  lately  past,  I  did  not  guess  the  reason  of  my  trouble  at  the  sight  of  you. 
As  if  there  could  be  but  one  reason  for  that  trouble.  As  if  there  could  be  more 
than  one  face  in  all  the  world  to  set  my  heart  beating  as  it  beat  that  night.  As 
if  I  could  feel  what  I  felt  thcu  at  the  sight  of  any  face  but  one,  and  that  the  one 
that  was  a  baby's  face  fo^r-and-Tweuty  years  ago,  and  looked  up  at  me  out  of  my 
own  baby's  cradle.' 

'  What  do  you  mean  ?'  he  said  ;  'what  do  you  mean  ?  I  have  heard  my  father 
say  that  I  was  born  in  Cumberland,  and  that  he  deserted  my  mother,  carrying  nu 
away  with  him  when  I  was  but  a  child  in  arms.  What  is  it  you  mean  by  thi> 
wild  talk  ?' 

The  Bible  which  Sarah  had  kissed  a  short  time  before,  lay  open  on  the  table  by 
the  bedside.  She  stretched  out  her  hand,  and  laying  it  upon  the  page,  said  sol- 
emnly— 'I  mean,  Henry  Masterson,  that  [  was  the  wretched  wife  and  mother 
whom  that  bad  man  deserted,  and  that  you  are  my  only  child.' 

The  young  man  dropped  his  head  upon  the  coverlet  and  sobbed  aloud,  his 
mother  weeping  over  him  and  caressing  him  all  the  while.' 

'My  boy!  my  boy!'  she  cried,  'have  they  told  me  the  truth.?     Is  it  true ?' 

'That  I  am  a  thief  and  a  highwayman  ?  Yes,  mother;  and  that  I  have  never 
been  honest  since  my  babyhood,  or  lived  with  honest  people  since  I  can  remember. 
My  father  cuffed  me  and  beat  me,  a"nd  half-starved  me  and  neglected  me,  and  left 
me  for  days  and  days  together  in  some  wretched  den,  forgetting  that  such  a  crea- 
ture as  his  son  lived  upon  the  earth ;  but  he  did  not  forget  to  teach  me  to  steal, 
and  I  was  quick  to  learn  my  lesson.  I  ran  away  from  him  when  1  was  ten  years 
old,  and  lived  with  gipsies  and  tramps  and  thieves  and  vagabonds  and  beggars,  till 
I  was  cleverer  at  all  their  wicked  businesses  than  those  that  were  throe  times  my 
nge,  and  they  made  much  of  me  aud  pampered  me  for  my  pretty  looks  and  m\ 
cleverness,  till  I  left  them  for  a  higher  way  of  life,  and  fell  iu  with  a  man  who  was 


122  DAREELL  MAEKHAM ;   OE      • 

lay  master  first  and  my  servant  afterwards,  but  who,  from  first  to  last,  was  one  to 
stifle  every  whisper  of  my  conscience  and  every  hope  of  ever  being  a  better  man. 
The  history  of  my  life  would  fill  twenty  volumes,  mother,  but  you  might  read  the 
moral  of  it  in  three  lines.  It's  been  a  straight  race  for  the  gallows  from  beginning 
to  end/ 

He  had  lifted  his  head  to  say  all  this.  .  The  tears,  he  had  shed  were  already 
half-dried  by  the  fever  of  his  flushed  cheeks,  and  his  eyes  glittered  with  a  burn- 
ing light.* 

<  Tell  me,  my  boy,'  said  Sarah,  clinging  abouj;  this  new-found  son,  '  tell  me,  is 
there  any  danger — any  danger  for  your  life  ?\ 

He  shook  his  head  mournfully. 

1  I've  never  cared  much  how  or  when  I  risked  it/  he  answered.  '  I've  well- 
nigh-thrown  it  away  for  a  wager  before  this;  but  I  feel  to-night  as  if  I  shold  like 
to  keep  it  for  your  sake,  mother.' 

'  And  is  there  any  danger  ?' 

'  Every  danger,  if  they  scent  out  my  whereabouts  just  yet  awhile.  But  if  I  can 
only  cheat  the  gallows 'for  two  months  longer,  Master  Jack  Ketch  will  be  cozened 
of  his  dues? 

'  How,  my  darling  ?  ' 

1  Because  a  learned  physician  in  Loudon  told  me  a  couple  of  weeks  ago,  after 
sounding  my  chest  and  knocking  me  about  till  I  was  fairly  out  of  patience,  that 
my  lungs  are  for  the  most  part  gone,  and  that  I  have  not  three  months  to  live. 


CHAPTER  XXIII.— The  Finding  of  the  Body. 

The  body  of  George  Duke  was  found. 

Nigh  upon  two  months  had  passed  since  that  January  night  upon  which  Milli- 
eent  Duke  rushed  half  distraught  into  the  hall  at  the  Black  Bear  to  tell  her  hor- 
rible story;  for  nigh  upon  two  months  the  unhappy  lady  had  languished  in 
Carlisle  jail. 

The  Captain's  body  was  found  in  a  dismal  pool  behind  the  stables  at  Compton 
Hall.  How  the  hiding-place  had  come  to  be  overlooked  in  that  general  search 
which  had  been  made  immediately  after  the  murder,  no  one  was  able  to  say. 
Every  man  who  had  assisted  in  that  search  declared  emphatically  that  he  had 
looked  everywhere;  and  yet  it  seemed  clear  enough  that  no  one  had  looked  here; 
for,  as  the  end  of  March  drew  nigh,  and  the  inhabitants  of  Compton  were  busy 
talking  of  Mrs.  Duke's  approaching  trial,  the  draught-horses  on  the  Compton  Hall 
farm  refusad  to  drink  the  stagnant  water  of  this  pool,  and  a  vile  miasma  rising 
from  its  shallow  bosom  set  the  slow  brains  of  the  farm-laborers  at  work  to  discover 
the  cause  of  the  mischief.  A  dismal  horror  was  brought  to  the  light  of  day  by 
this  search.  The  body  of  a  man,  rotted  out  of  all  semblance  to  humanity,  was 
found  lying  at  the  bottom  of  that  stagnant  pool,  as  it  had* doubtless,  lain  since 
that  night  in  January,  when  the  falling  snow  blotted  away  the  traces  of  the  mur- 
derer's feet,  and  fell  like  a  sheltering  curtain  upon  the  footsteps  of  crime. 

The  stable-yard  lay  behind  the  prim  flower-beds  and  straight  walks  of  the  little 
pleasure  ground  below  the  garden  chamber  in  which  George  Duke  had  been^mur- 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE.  123 

ilcred.  Between  the  stable-yard  and  this  neglected  flower-garden  there  was  no 
barrier  but  a  quick-set  hedge  and  a  little  wicket  gate.  From  this  irate  to  the  pond 
behind  the  stables  the  distance  was  about  thirty  yards. 

It  was  a  likely  enough  place,  therefore,  for  the  murderer  to  choose  for  the  con- 
cealment of  his  victim;  but  whoever  had  dragged  the  body  of  George  Puke  from 
the  garden-chamber  to  this  pool  must  have  had  another  task  to  perform  before  his 
hideous  work  was  done.  Every  piece  of  w?ater  in  Compton  had  been  frozen  over 
on  that  January  night;  the  murderer  must,  therefore,  have  broken  a  hole  in  the 
ice  before  throwing  the  body  into  the  pond,  and  this  hole  being  frozen  over  the 
next  morning  by  daybreak,  and  the  pond,  moreover,  being  thickly  covered  with  a 
bed  of  suow,  it  was  scarcely  so  strange  that  those  who  searched  for  the  body  should 
have  overlooked  this  hiding-place. 

At  the  bottom  of  the  ^ool  wis  found  the  instrument  which  the  murderer  had 
doubtless  used  to  break  up  the  ice.  It  was  a  thick  oaken  walking-stick,  the  centre 
of  which  was  hollowed  out  so  as  to  conceal  a  rapier.  The  old  <  squire  had  had  a 
strange  fancy  for  quaint  walking-sticks,  loaded  canes,  sword-sticks,  and  such 
weapons;  and  there  could  be  little  doubt  that  this  oaken  stick  was  taken  from  a 
collection  of  these  things  which  had  lain  for  }Tears  in  a  closet  beside  the  parlor 
chimney. 

The  remains  were  carried  into  one  of  the  empty  chambers  in  Compton  Hall,  and 
a  coroner's  -inquest  was  there  held  upon  them. 

.No  one  seemed  for  an  instanCto  entertain  a  doubt  that  this  was  the  body  of 
George  Puke,  although  there  was  little  enough  about  these  decomposed  remains 
by  which  to  prove  identity.  The  few  sotting  rags  of  clothing  still  hanging  about 
the  corpse  consisted  only  of  the  shreds  of  a  shirt,  breeches  and  stockings.  There 
was  no  trace  of  the  shabby  coat  with  the  naval  buttons,  the  three-cornered  hat, 
waistcoat  and  boots,  which  the  Captain  jvore  on  returning  to  Compton.  Yet  these 
things  had  disappeared  on  the  night  of  the  murder. 

The  coroner's  jury  took  no  pains  to  unravel  this  branch  of  the  dismal  mystery, 
and  pronounced  a  verdict  to  the  effect  that  a  body — supposed  to  be  the  missing 
body  of  George  Duke — had  been  found  in  a  pond  on  the  premises  belonging  to 
Compton  Hall. 

Milliccut,  in  her  cell  at  Carlisle,  received  the  news  of  the  discovery  of  the  body, 

and  the  verdict  which  had  followed  that  discovery,  as  calmly  as  if  neither  the  one 

«nor  the  other  were  to  have  any  influence  on  her  fate.     The  frail,  womanly  nature 

had  been  so  shaken  by  the  horrors  of  that  January  night,  that  even  the  thought 

of  a  shameful  death  could  scarcely-terrify  her. 

Two  months  had  passed  since  Millicent's  examination  before  Mr.  .Justice  Bow- 
ers, and  nothing  had  been  seen  of  Parrel  1  Markham.  Brief  letters  came  now  and 
then  for  Sarah  Pecker,  telliug  her  how  the  young  man  was  hard  at  work  for  the 
good  of  his  cousin;  but  each  of  these  letters  was  less  hopeful  than  the  last,  and 
Sarah  began  to  despair  of  any  help  from  that  quarter  for  the  hapless  prisoner  lan- 
guishing in  Carlisle  jail. 

Sarah  had  traveled  to  see  her  old  master's  daughter,  and  each  time  had  found 
Mrs.  Puke  ecpually  calm  and  resigned;  pale,  and  thin,  and  faded,  it  is  true,  but 
less  altered  than  Sally  thought  to  find  her  by  this  long  imprisonment. 

Once,  and  once  only,  Millicent  uttered  some  words  that  struck  a  shivering  hor- 
r6r  to  the  very  heart  of  the  listener. 

*   ■ 


124    -  DARRELL  MARKHAM ;  OR 

It  was  towards  the  close  of  her  dreary  incarceration  that  Mrs.  Duke  thus  terri- 
fied her  honest-hearted  friend.  Sarah  had  been  reading  DarreH's  last  letter,  in 
which,  though  evidently  wrestling  very  hard  with  despur,  he  promised  that  he 
would  labor  to  the  very  death  to  clear  his  cousin's  name,  when  Millicent  began 
wringing  her  hands  and  crying  mournfully: — 'Why  does  Darrell  take  this  trouble 
for  me  ?  Let  the  worst  that  can  befall  me,  I  have  little  wish  to  live ;  arid  after  all, 
Sarah — -after  all,  who  can  tell  that  I  am  really  guiltless  of  George  Duke's  Jolood  V 

1  Miss  Millicent !— Miss  Millicent !' 

1  Who  can  tell  ?  I  know  that  I  was  nigh  upon  being  distraught  that  cruel  night 
upon  which  my  husband  came  home.  Who  knows  if  it  may  not  be  as  Mr.  Bow- 
ers thinks,  that  I  killed  him  in  a  paroxysm  of  madness?  Heaven  knows  that  I 
was  close  enough  to  madness  that  night.' 

1  Oh,  Miss  Milly  !'  she  cried,  *  for  pity's  sake — for  tlfc  sake  of  the  merciful  God 
who  looks  down  upon  you  and  sees  your  helplessness,  do  not  utter  these  horrible 
words.  Do  you  know  that  to  say  in  the  court  of  justice  one  week  hence  what  you 
have  said  to  me  this  day,  would  be  to  doom  yourself  to  certain  death.  1  know, 
Miss  Millicent,  that  you  are  innocent,  and  you  know  it  too.  Never,  never,  never 
let  that  thought  leave  your  brain ;  for  when  it  does,  you  will  be  mad !  Ilemember, 
whatever  others  may  think  of  you — however  the  wisest  in  the  land  may  judge 
you; — remember  through  all,  and  until  death — if  death  must  come — that  you 
are  innocent !' 

Sarah  Pecker  did  not  content  herself  with  this  adjuration,  she  waited  upou  the 
governor  of  the  jail,  and  being  admitted  to  his  presence,  implored  of  him  that  "he 
would  place  some  kind'  and  discreet  woman  in  the  cell  with  Mrs.  Duke,  as  nurse, 
or  watcher,  for  that  the  poor  lady  was  in  danger  of  losing  her  wits  from  the  effects 
of  long  and  solitary  confinement.  <  1  would  ask  leave  to  stay  with  her  myself, 
poor  darling,'  Sarah  said,  '  but  that  I  fcave  ctne  lying  ill  at  home  whose  days  are 
well  nigh  numbered.' 

Mrs.  Pecker  spoke  with  a  heartfelt  energy  that  carried  conviction  with  it ;  and 
although  those  were  no  great  days  for  .mercy,  and  though  the  glorious  fiction  of 
the  law  which  pretends,  to  hold  a  man  innocent  until  the  hour  of  his  condemnation 
was  then  little  attended  to,  the  governor  acceeded  to  Sarah's  prayer,  and  a  woman 
(herself  doing  penance  for  some  petty  offence)  was  placed  with  Millicent  to  lighten 
the  horrors  of  her  cell. 

Sarah  had  her  hands  full  of  trouble  this  melancholy  spring  •  She  had  told  so 
much  of  her  son's  story  as  she  well  dared  to  Samuel  Pecker;  telling  him,  however, 
that  the  pedlar  was  the  brother  of  her  dead  husband,  Thomas  Masterson,  and  tell- 
ing very  little  of  her  son's  delinquencies.  She  also  told  him  that  which  is  apt  to 
soften  the  sternest  of  us  towards  the  sinning;  she  told  him  that  whatever  Henry 
Masterson's  failings  might  have  been,  he  would  soon  be  beyond  the  chance  of 
making  any  earthly  atonement  for  them,  and  before  a  Judge  who  was  wiser,  yet 
more  pitiful  than  any  Justice  in  the  county  of  Cumberland,  or  on  the  face  of  the 
wide  earth. 

So  simple  and  soft-hearted  Samuel  Pecker  opened  his  arms  to  the  dying  son  of 
the  vagabond  Thomas  Masterson;  and  the  worthy  Thomas,  after  having  enjoyed  a 
good  night's  Test  and  a  hearty  breakfast,  strode  away  in  the  dusky  dawn  of  the. 
February  day;  after  leaving  behind  him  a  message  for  Mrs.  Pecker,  to  the  effect 
that  he  should  return  before  the  week  was  out  to  fetch  that  little  matter  they  "had 
talked  about 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE.  125 

Betty  delivered  this  message  with  laudable  accuracy,  and  Mrs  Pecker  fully  un- 
derstood that  the  little  matter  in  question  was  the  hundred  pounds  she  had  pro- 
mised as  .the  price  of  the  pedlar's  secret.  She  obtained  the  sum  with  little 
difficulty  from  her  confiding  husband,  who  went  by  coach  to  the  market-town  one 
afternoon  within  the  week,  to  draw  the  money  from  the  bank:  but  it  happened 
that  on  that  very  afternoon  Thomas  Masterson,  dressed  in  a  new  suit"  bought  by 
him  out  of  a  handful  of  ready  cash  obtained  from  Sarah  ou  the  night  of  their  in- 
terview, swaggered  through  the  high  street  of  the  same  market-town,  and  was 
betrayed  iuto  the  natural  weakness  of  putting  his  big  hand  into  somebody  else's 
pocket.  Whether  from  long  residence  in  a  foreign  land,  and  want  of  practice  in 
the  art,  I  know  not,  but  Thomas  on  that  particular  afternoon  was  so  very  far  from 
up  to  the  mark  in  his  performance,  that  he  was  caught  in  the  act  b}'  his  intended 
victim,  and  delivered  over  to  the  constables,  who  handed  him  on  ta  Carlise  jail  to 
await  his  trial  at  the  ensuing  assizes,  with  many  others  of  the  same , calibre. 
;  This  unfortunate  circumstance  of  course  prevented  his  appearing  to  claim  the 
reward  promised  by  Sarah,  and  the  worthy  woman,  after  living  for  several  days 
a-ud  nights  in  perpetual  dread  of  his  arrival,  began  to  hope  that  some  happy 
chance  had  befallen  to  send  him  out  of  her  way. 

She  had  enough  to  do  in  watching  by  the  sick-bed  of  her  son,  who  lay  in  a 
comfortable  parretj  chamber  under  the  roof  of  the  house,  and  whose  whereabouts 
were  known  to  none  but  his  mother,  Samuel  Pecker,  and  the  doctor  who  attended 
upon  him.  .  » 

The  brilliant  Sir  Lovel  Mortimer — the  notorious  Captain  Fanny — could  scarcely 
have  had  a  s!lfer  hiding-place  than  the  garret  chamber  in  this  old  inn.  Bow- 
street  had  grown  weary  of  counting  on  the  reward  that  was  freely  offered  for  his 
capture.  His  old  comrades — fine  fellows,  of  course,  every  one  of  them,  but  any 
one  of  whom  might  have  taken  it  iuto  his  head  to  turn  king's  evidence  at  a  push 
— had  entirely  lost  sight  of  him ;  and  it  seemed  almost  as  if  the  highwayman  had 
dropped  out  of  the  troubled  sea  of  human  life  and  crime,  without  leaving  so  much 
as  a  bubble  to  mark  the  spot  where  he  had  gone  down. 


CHAPTER  XXIV.— The  Trial  of  Millicent  Puke. 

Darrell  Markham  had  uot  been  idle.  '  The  noble  Scottish  geatl<  man  whom  he 
served  was  ready  to  give  him  all  help  in  his  hour  of  need,  and  three  days  after 
the  examination  before  Mr.  Montague  Bowers,  the  case  of  Millicent  Puke  was  in 
the  hands  of  the  most  distinguished  criminal  lawyers  of  the  day.  Busy  Bow- 
Street  runners — better  known  as  Robin-redbreasts — had  been  placed  upon  the 
scent ;  but  look  which  way  they  would  at  the  case,  it  had  an  equally  sinister  as- 
pect, and  Darrell  Markham's  hardest  trial  was  to  find  that  even  those  who  i 
most  friendly  to  him  had  no  belief  in  the  innocence  of  his  wretched  cousin. 

'  That  the  unhappy  lady  committed  this  terrible  deed  in  a  paroxysm  of  mad- 
ness, and  that  she  is  morally  innocent  of  the  crime  of  murder,  I  can  easily  be- 
lieve, my  dear  Darrell, Vaid  Lord  0 ;  'but  that  any  English  jury  will  acquit 

her  upon  the  cvidenoe  of  which  you  tell  me  is  more  than  I  dare  to  hope.' 

Endeavours  to  throw  light  upon  the  antecedent-:  of  George  Puke  resulted  in  the 


126  DARRKLL  MARKHAM;  OR 

•discovery  that  the  Captain  of  the  Vulture  had  well  deserved  the  worst  fate  that 
could  befall  him.  Inquiries  which  occupied  much  time,  and  caused  a  great  .deal 
of  trouble  in  the  making,  revealed  the  fact  that  the  good  ship'  Vulture  had  been 
seized  and  burnt  by  a  vessel  belonging  to  the  French  Government  off  the  coast  of 
Barbary ;  and  that  her  captain,  George  Duke,  together  with  his  first  mate,  one 
Thomas  MasteYsou,  had  been  sent  to  the  galleys  by  the  same  French  Government 
as  slavers,  pirates,  and  suspected  assassins ;  from  which  fate  they  had  escaped  in 
conjunction,  upon  the' first  of  January  in  that  year. 

Yes,  George  Duke,  the  dashing  sailor,  who  had  so  easily  imposed  upon  igno- 
rant Squire  Markhain  with  his  naval  uniform  and  flashy  manners,  had  been  a 
rogue  aud  a  pirate,  and  had  worked  at  the  oar  with  his  ex-mate  Thomas  Master- 
son  for  upwards  of  six  years."  * 

The  attorney  employed  by  Darrell  Markham  for  the  preparation  of  his  cousin's 
defence,  deemed  it  expedient  to  discover  the  whereabouts  of  .this  very  Thomas 
Masterspn,  in  the  hope  that  some  clue  to  the  mystery  might  be  extracted  from 
this  the  familiar  companion  of  tJie  murdered  man. 

An  advertisement  inserted  several  times  in  the  London  Gazette,  resulted  in  a 
letter  from  the  governor  of  Carlisle  jail,  containing  the  information  that  this  man. 
Thomas  Masterson,  was  confined  in  that  prison  for  some  petty  theft,  awaiting  his 
trial  at  the  same  assizes  which  were  to  decide"  the  fate  of  Mrs.  George  Duke. 

One  of  the  best  men  at  the  Old  Bailey  was  retained  for  Milliccnt's  defence  by 
the  solicitors  entrusted  with  the  ease.  Darrell  Markham  implored  the  worthy 
gentleman  to  spare  neither  trouble  nor  money  iu  compassing  the  acquittal  of  his 
unhappy  cousin  ;  but  the  advocate  shook  his  head  over  the  contents  of  his  brief, 
and  freely  told  Mr.  Markham  that  he  did  not  see  a  glimmer  of  hope  iu  the  dreary 
business. 

So,  on  the  eve  of  Milliccnt's  trial,  the  northern  mail  carried  Darrell  Markham, 
Mr.  Pauncet,  the  solicitor,  and  Mr.  Horace  Weldon,  barrister-at-law,  to  the  city  of 
Carlisle,  where,  upon  the  terrible  morrow,  a  delicate  woman  of  seven-aud-tweuty 
years  of  age  was  to  answer  to  the  charge  of  wilful  murder. 

The  eve  of  the  trial  brought  Sarah  Decker  from  the  bedside  of  her  dying  son-. 
The  poor  woman  came  to  Carlisle  attended  by  Samuel,  who  was  one  of  the  wit- 
nesses for  the  Crown,  aud  whose  brain  was  well  nigh  turned  by  the  responsibili- 
ties of  his  position. 

The  cold  march  sunshine  lighted  up  every  corner  of  the  crowded  court  when 
Millicent  Duke  was  led  to  her  place  iu  the  criminal  dock  to  answer  to  the  charge, 
of  murder.  She  was  brought  so  low  iu  health  by  her  long  imprisonment,  that 
her  custodians,  out  of  pity  for  her  weak  state,  allowed  her  to  sit  throughout  the 
proceeding.  # 

Fifty  years  after  that  day  there  were  people  liviug  in  Carlisle  who  could  tell  of. 
the  pale  golden  head,  lighted  by  the  faint  spring  sunshine,  and  the  delicate  face, 
worn  and  wasted  by  trial  and  suffering,  but  very  beautiful  in  its  white  tranquility. 

'Not  guilty:' 

The  evidence  given  by  the  witnesses  for  the  prosecution  was  much  the  same  as 
that  already  cited  before  Mr.  Montague  Bowers.  Again  Samuel  Pecker  became 
vague  and  obscure  as  to  the  identity  of  George  Duke,  of  tke  Vulture,  with  that 
ghost,  or  shadow,  which  had  appeared  at  three  divers  times  to  three  separate 
indivduals  iu  the  course  of  seven  Veare. 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE.  127 

The  story  of  the  ghost  was  listened  to  with  breathless  interest  by  the  country- 
folk, but  there  was  nothing  to  be  made  of  if  that  could  throw  any  light  upon  the 
foul  murder  which  had  been  done  at  Coinpton  Hall. 

Samuel  Pecker,  under  a  vigorous  cross-examination,  faithfully  narrated  the  first 
appearance  of  the  shadow  in  the  cold  twilight  of  the  October  evening,  aud  went 
on'  to  tell  how  the  same  ghostly  shade  had  been  met  three  months  afterwards  ou 
the  pier  at  Marley  Water  by  the  prisoner  at  the  bar,  and  how  the  shadow  had 
again  appeared  upon  the  very  night  of  the  murder,  bringing  with  it  a  horse  of 
lean  condition,  but  of  actual  flesh  and  blood;  which  horse  had  been  afterwards 
fetched  away  from  the  Black  Bear  by  a  morose  stable  lad,  who  refused  to  tell 
y  whence  or  from  whom  he'  came,  but  who  paid  the  money  due  for  the  animal's  keep, 
mounted  him,  and  rode  away. 

It  was  hard  for  Darrell  Markham  to  take  his  pkce  in  the  witness-box  and 
answer  the  questions  put  to  him  by  the  counsel  for  the  Crown,  knowing  full  well 
that  every  word  he  spoke  went  to  coudemu  his  unhappy  cousin.  When  asked  in 
cross-examination  if  he  had  ever  seen  the  Captain's  double,  he  told  of  the  encoun- 
ter upon  Compton  Moor,  in  which  he  had  been  robbed  aud  wounded,  aud  further 
related  the  story  told  by  Ringwood  Markham  of  the  young  squire'e  meeting  with 
a  man  whom  he  mistook  for  U-eorge  Duke  in  the  house  at  Chelsea. 

'At  whose  house,  Mr.  Markham?"  asked  the  counsel. 

'At  a  house  in  which  an  acquaintance  of  my  cousin  had  lodgings.' 

'  Will  you  tell  us  the  name  of  this  acquaintance  ?' 

'.He  was  no  very  worthy  one,'  answered  Darrell.  '  He  called  himself  Sir  Lovel 
Mortimer,  and  imposed  upon  my  cousin  Ringwood,  with  his  fine  clothes  and  cox- 
combical manners,  but  he  was  a  highwayman,,  commonly  known  by  the  nickname 
of  Captain  Fanny.' 

Mr.  Weldon  laughed.  '  I  know  the  young  gentleman/  he  said  ;  '1  once  had 
the  honour  of  cross-questioning  him  at,  the  013  Bailey,  and  the  fellow  seemed  a 
clever  dog.  So  it  was  in  the  companionship  of  Captain  Fanny  that  George  Duke, 
or  George  Duke's  ghost,  was  met  by  yoUr  cousin  Ringwood.' 

<  It  was  ' 

1  Have  you  any  reason  for  supposing  that  the  person  seen  by  your  cousin  was 
not  George  Duke  himself?' 

'None;  except  that  Die  Captain  of  the  Vulture  was  at  that  time  believed  to  be 
away  with  his  ship.' 

These  questions  leading  to  nothing,  the  examination  of  Darrell  concluded. 

Mrs.  Bieggis,  the  deaf  housekeeper,  Hugh  Martin,  the  constable,  aud  Sarah 
Pecker  were  then  examined,  with  the  same  result  as  ou  the  former  occasion,  and 
the  case  for  the  prosecution  closed.  A  terribly  strong  case  against  the  pale  woman 
at  the  bar. 

A  clock  outside  the  court  struck  three  as  the  counsel  for  the  Crown  sat  down. 
More  than  half  the  day  had  been  spent  in  the  examination  of  these  witnesses. 
•  Millicent's  counsel  felt  that  his  task  was  almost  a  hopeless  one.  He  had  freely 
givTn  his  opinion  on  the  case,  and  had  declared  to  Darrell  that  the  only  hope  of 
Baring  Millicent  was  by  putting  in  a  plea  of  the  insanity  of  the  accused.  Tins 
proposition  Darrell  iudiguautly  rejected,  and  the  barrister's  defence  was  grounded 
only  ou  two  or  three  points. 

these  points  were,  the  gentle  and  amiable  nature  of  Millicent  Duke ;  the  hit- 


128.  DARBjjLL*  MARKHAM  (JOR 

probability  tbat  such  a  crime  could  have  been  committed  by  a  fragile  woman ;  the 
dissolute  character  of  the  murdered  man;  and  the  likelihood  that  be  might  have 
had  some  enemy  who  followed  him  down  to  Compton-on-the-Moor,  and  murdered 
him  on  the  night  of  his  arrival. 

After  reading  the  deposition  made  by  Millicent  before  Montague  Bowers,  the 
counsel  went  on  to  comment  upon  the  facts  stated  therein. 

4  There  are  two  or  three  points,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,'  he  said,  '  to  which  I 
have  to  call  your  especial  notice.  The  first  is  the  incredibility  of  the  supposition 
that  my  client,  a  delicate  and  slender  woman,  whose  health  was  shaken  by  the 
excitement  and  agitation  she  had  undergone,  should  have  had  the  power  to  convey 
the  heavy  body  of  a  strong  man  for  a  distance  of  forty  yards,  and,  furthermore,  to 
break  a  thick  sheet  of  ice,  and  throw  the  aforesaid  body  into  the  pool  in  which 
the  corpse,  stated  to  be  that  of  George  Duke,  was  found.  Granting,  however,  the 
possibility  of  this — and  very  difficult  it  is  for  any  rational  being  to  do  so — is  it 
likely  that  my  client,  after  undergoing  this  almost  superhuman  exertion  in  order 
to  conceal  the  chief  evidence  of  her  crime,  should  hurry  to  make  the  deed  known 
by  an  uncalled-for  revelation  ?  Such  a  line  of  conduct  could  be  prompted  by 
insanity,  aud  insanity  alone,  and  the  deposition  which  I  hold  in  my  hand,  and 
which  I  have  lately  had  the  honour  to  read  to  you,  will  not  admit  of  such  an 
explanation.  All  here  is  clear  and  lucid — there  is  no  contradiction — no  inconse- 
quence. My  client  describes  the  events  of  that  terrible  night  without  either  hesi-. 
tation  or  reticence.  Captain  Duke  may  have  broken  a  blood-vessel,  and  may  have 
left  Compton  Hall  of  his  own  free  will  for  some  purpose  which  is  utterly  unfathom- 
able to  us  who  are  possessed  of  no  clue  to  his  conduct.  He  was  a  wretch  capable 
of  any  villauy.  His  disappearance  may  be  a  hideous  plot,  by  which  he  hopes  to 
revenge  himself  upon  the  unhappy  woman  at  yonder  bar.  Do  not  reject  the  sup- 
positions I  suggest  because  at  first  sight  they  appear  improbable— -they  cannot  be 
more  incredible  than  the  assumption  of  my  client's  guilt.  Innocent  blood  has 
been  shed  too  often  through  judicial  ,error.  The  case  of  Ambrose  Gwinctt  is 
doubtless  familiar  to  you,  and  may  afford  a  singular  parallel  to  that  which  you 
are  called  upon  to  decide  to-day.  My  first  proposition  is  that  there  11133'  have  been 
no  murder  committed.  My  second*,  that  if  George  Duke  was  indSed  murdered, 
he  fell  a  victim  to  some  unknown  person  or  persons  interested  iu  compassing  his 
death.  The  chamber  may  have  been  entered  by  some  person  intent  on  plundering 
the  house — which  was  thought  to  be  occupied  only  by  the  woman  Meggis — and 
unaware  of  the  presence  of  George  Duke.  The  murderer,  whoever  he  was,  was 
doubtless  disturbed  in  his  horrible  work  by  th«  comiug  of  my  client,  who  states 
in  her  deposition  that  she  bad  some  difficulty  in  opcuing  the  door  of  the  chamber; 
he  had,  therefore,  ample  time  to  conceal  himself  before  she  entered  the  room. 
Immediately  upon  her  discovery  of  the  murder  she  fled  from  the  house,  leaving 
the  coast  clear  for  the  assassin.  Two  hours  must  have  elapsed  from  that  time 
until  the  arrival  of  Hugh  Martin  and  Darrell  Markham ;  during  that  interval  the 
murderer  had  ample  leisure  for  the  concealment  of  the  body,  and  for  making  off  with 
the  clothes  of  his  victim';  for  be  it  remembered  that  every  trace  of  the  outer  gar- 
ments worn  by  George  Duke  had  disappeared  when  the  constable  and  Mr.  Mark- 
ham  made  their  search  of  the  Hall.  I  ask  you,  gentlemen  of  the  jury,  if  you  can 
for  a  moment  believe  my  client  guilty,  what  you  imagine  her  to  have  done  with 
those  clothes?     What  T  :  me?.DS;  what  opportunity  bad  she  for  dispos- 


THE  CAPTAIN  OP  THE  VULTURE.  129 

ing  of  the  heavy  garments  worn  by  her  husband  ?  I  answer,  without  hesitation, 
none.' 

Mr.  Horace  Weldon  concluded  his  address  with  a  powerful  appeal  to  the  jury. 

Thomas  Masterson  was  the  first  witness  called  for  the  defence. 

It  was  no  very  easy  matter  to  get  the  truth- out  of  Mr.  Thomas  Masterson ;  he 
fenced  the  questions  put  to  him  in  a  manner  that  would  have  commanded  con- 
siderable admiration  at  the  Old  Bailey;  but  he  had  an  Old  Bailey  practitioner  to 
deal  with,  and  he  was  made  to  tell  how  he  and  George  Duke  had  contrived  to 
escape  together  from  the  watchful  guardians  of  the  galleys.   • 

Every  ear  was  bent  upon  this  man's  words,  every  eye  was  fixed  upon  his  face, 
as  he  told  his  storji,  and  Pvery  creature  in .  that  court  recoiled  with  a  thrill  of 
horror  at  sight  of  a  change  which  suddenly  came  over  the  aspect  of  the  speaker's 
countenance. 

In  the  very  midst  of  a  sentence  Thomas  Masterson  stopped,  and  with  ashen 
cheeks  and  dilated  eyes  stared  across  the  heads  of  the  lawyers  and  the  multitude 
at  the.  door-way  of  the  court,  which  was  in  an  elevated  situation,  communicating 
by  a  flight  of  steps  with  the  main  body  of  the  building. 

A  man  who  had  just  entered  the  court  was  standing  at  the  top  of  these  steps, 
apart  from  all  other  spectators.  He  was  speaking  in  a  whisper  to  an  official  close 
to  him,  speaking  as  if  he  were  charging  the  official  with  a  message,  and  it  seemed 
by  the  man's  air  that  the  intruder's  business  was  no  common  one. 

1  Why  do  you  pause,  Mr.  Masterson  ?'  asked  the  barrister. 

The  witness  slowly  raised  his  hand  and  pointed  to  the  stranger  at  the  top  of 
the  steps. 

'Because  Cap'en  George  Duke  has  just  come  into  the  court,'  he  answered. 

Millicent  Duke  had  been  sitting  quietly  iu  the  dock,  with  her  head  drooping 
forward,  and  her  hands  loosely  folded  in  her  lap,  throughout  the  whole  length  of 
the  proceedings,  very  much  as  if  she  were  an  uninterested  spectator  to  whom  the 
issue  mattered  little ;  but  as  Thomas  Masterson  spoke  these  words  she  lifted  her 
head,  and  looking  in  the  direction  to  which  the  hand  of  the  witness  pointed, 
uttered  a  feeble  cry  of  horror  and  consternation. 

'  Again,'  she  murmured,  '  again,  again  !' 

The  official  to  whom  the  new-comer  had  been  speaking  made  his  way  through 
the  crowd,  and  whispered  some  message  into  the  ear  of  Millicent's  counsel. 

The  barrister  turned  to  the  Judge  with  a  sudden  gesture  of  surprise. 

'  My  lud,'  he  exclaimed,  '  convinced  as  I  have  myself  felt  of  the  innocence  of 
my  client,  I  must  freely  confess  that  my  list  of  witnesses  for  the  defence  was  not 
;i  strong  one;  but-  I  am  now  iu  a  positiou  to  call  a  new  one — I  am  now  in  a  posi- 
tion to  declare  that  no  murder  has  bejsn  committed,  and  that  George  Duke  now 
stands  in  this  Court.' 

'No,  no,  no!' 

It  was  from  the  lips  of  the  prisoner  that  this  feeble  murmur  came ;  but  at  that 
moment  every  eye  was  fixed  upon  the  brown-eyed  stranger,  who  was  now  placed  ia 
the  witness-box,  Thomas  Masterson  giving  way  to  the  new-comer. 

'  Stop  where  you  are,  Mr.  Masterson,'  said  Millicent's  counsel,  '  we  may'  want 
you  presently.' 

The  mariner  stepped  a  few  paces  from  the  witness-box,  staring  with  a  peculiarly 


l£Q  DARRELL  MARKHAM;  OR 

puzzled  expression  at  the  face  of  the  new-comer,  and  scratching  his  closely-shorn 
head  with  a  slow  and  reflective  gesture. 

'  May  I  ask,  Captain  George  Duke/  said  the  hamster,  '  for  what  reason  you 
have  heen  pleased  to  keep  out  of  the  way  until  your  wife  was  placed  in  a  criminal 
dock  under  the  charge  of  wilful  murder  ?' 

1 I  stayed  away/  said  the  man,  '  because  I  got  no  pleasant  welcome  from  my 
wife,  yonder.  We  quarrelled  before  I  went  to  rest,  and  having  drunk  more  than 
was  good  for  me,  and  being  disheartened  at  my  reception,  I  thought  life  was  so 
little  worth  having,  that  I  made  a  gash  in  my  own  throat,  thinking  to  finish  with 
it.  But  though  I  let  blood  enough  to  cure  twenty  fever  patients,  I  did  no  more 
to  myself  than' was  enough  to  bring  me  to  a  more  reasonable  way  of  thinking.  So 
I  staunched  the  wound  by  tying  a  thick  woollen  handkerchief  about  my  throat, 
and  walked  straight  out  of  the  house,  never  meaning  to  set  eyes  upon  yonder 
lady  again."  I  made  a  cut  of  sixteen  miles  across  country,  and  contrived  to  meet 
the  York  mail.  From  York  I  went  to  London,  where  I've  been  staying  ever 
since.  Three  days  ago  a  chance  paragraph  informed  me  of  the  mischief  caused 
by  my  absence  I  lost  no  time  in  booking  my  place  in  the  North  coach,  and  here- 
I  am  to  clear  my  wife  yonder  of  the  charge  brought  against  her.' 

The  counsel  for  the  prosecution  rose  at  this  juncture. 

'  My  learned  friend  forgets/  he  said,  '  that  the  person  stating  himself  to  be 
Captain  Duke  has  been  only  recognized  by  one  man,  and  that  man  a  witness  for 
the  defence.  The  gentlemen  of  the  jury  will  require  a  stronger  proof  of  his  iden- 
tity before  they  admit  there  has  been  no  murder  committed.' 

'  I  am  not  afraid/  said  Millicent's  counsel.  .  '  Call  Samuel  and  Sarah  Pecker, 
Darrell  Markham,  Martha  Meggis,  and  Hugh  Martin.' 

The  witnesses  were  recalled. 

'  Be  good  enough,  Captain  Duke,  to  step  forward  into  the  strongest  light  the 
Court  will  afford/  said  the  barrister. 

The  man  advanced  into  the  full  glare  of  the  candles.  He  wore  the  very  clothes 
he  had  worn  upon  the  night  of  his  amval  at  Compton  ;  the  shabby  blue  coat, 
with  the  naval  buttons  and  shreds  of  tarnished  lace,  the  jack  boots,  and  threadbare 
waistcoat,  and  the  weather-beaten,  three-cornered  hat.  His  auburn  hair  was  tied 
with,  a  ribbon,  and  his  brown  eyes  had  the  same  cruel  light  in  them  which  every 
one  could  remember  in  the  eyes  of  George  Duke. 

One  by  one  the  witnesses  swore  to  his  identity.  Hugh  Martin,  the  constable, 
was  the  last  to  swear. 

f 1  knew  Captain  Duke  well/  he  said,  i  and  I  can  take  my  oath  the  man  at 
whom  I  am  now  looking  is  no  other  than  he.  •  If  a  better  proof  of  his  identity  is 
needed,  I  think  I  can  give  it.' 

'  Let  us  have  it,  then,  by  all  means/  answered  Millicent's  counsel. 

The  constable  took  something  from  his  waistcoat  pocket  and  handed  it  to  the  bar- 
rister. It  was  a  naval  button,  with  a  fragment  of  shabby  blue  cloth  still  fastened 
to  the  hank. 

*  I  picked  that  up  in  the  oak  parlor  at  Compton  Hall  on  the  night  of  the  sup- 
posed murder/  said  Hugh ;  '  and  it  strikes  me  that  you'll  find  it  to  correspond 
with  the  other  buttons  on  that  gentleman's  coat.' 

On  examination,  the  buttons  were  found  to  correspond. 


THE  CAPTAIN  OP  THE  VULTURE.  131 

'  Gentlemen  of  the  jury,'  exclaimed  Horace  Weldon,  '  what  need  can  there  be 
to  delay  you  any  longer  upon  this  business  ?  We  have  no  occasion  to  press  Cap- 
tain Duke  as  to  the  motives  of  his  strange  conduct.  He  has  been  identified  in 
open  court  by  six  witnesses.  My  client's  innocence  is  so  self-evident  that  I  call 
upon  you  to  acquit  her  without  leaving  your  seats.' 

The  Judge  spoke  very  briefly. 

'  Gentlemen  of  the  jury/  he  said,  '  I  fully  concur  in  the  words  addressed  to  you 
by  the  counsel  for  the  defence.  The  case  appears  to  me  to  be  a  very  simple  one, 
and  your  course  in  the  matter  sufficiently  clear." 

There  was  a  little  whispering  amongst  the  jurymen,  a  suppressed  murmur  of 
suppressed  applause  from  the  crowd,  and  an  hysterical  shriek  of  delight  from 
Sarah  Pecker.     The  foremau  of  the  jury  rose  to  address  the  Judge. 

'  We  find  the  prisoner  not  guilty.' 

Fpr  the  first  time  throughout  the  day,  Millicent  rose  from  her  seat,  and  turning; 
towards  the  jury  that  had  just  acquitted  her,  said,  with  quiet  deliberation — 

'  I  thank  you,  gentlemen,  for  your  goodness,  to  me,  but  that  man  is  not  mj 
husband  !' 

Millicent's  counsel  had  seated  himself,  aud  was  busy  collecting  his  pdpers.  He 
rose  to  his  feet  as  she  spoke. 

'  Gentlemen,  gentlemen  !'  he  said,  '  this  day's  proceedings  have  unsettled  the 
mind  of  my  client.  I  beg  of  you  to  pay  no  attention  to  this.  Captain  Duke,«  re- 
move your  wife.' 

'  I  repeat,'  said  Millicent,  '  that  man  is  not  my  husband  !'    ^ 

'  Oh,  I  saw  it,  I  saw  it !  I  knew  how  it  would  be  the  day  she  spoke  to  me  in 
her  cell,  poor  innocent  lamb !'  exclaimed  Sarah  Pecker,  wringing  her  hands,  as 
she  and  Dafrell  advanced  to  take  Millicent  from  the  dock ;  '  I  knew  that  her  cruel 
sufferings  were  driving  her  mad.' 

'Let  Mis.  Duke's  friends  remove -her  from  the  court,'  said  the  Judge. 

'  I  will  not  stir  until  I  have  spoken,  my  lord,,'  cried  Mrs.  Duke.  '  Do  I  look 
or  speak  as  if  I  were  mad  ?  That  man  is  not  my  husband.  George  Duke  was 
murdered  on  the  night  of  the  30th  of  January  last.  It  was  his  dead  body  which 
I  saw  stretched  upon  the  bed  in  the  garden  chamber,  with  the  blood  streaming 
from  a  great  gash  in  his  throat.  As  for  that  man  standing  there,  it  is  no  new 
thing  for  me  to  see  the  shadow  of  my  husband.  I  saw  it  seven  years  ago,  upon 
the  pier' at  Marley  Water,  as  the  church  clocks  were  striking  twelve.' 

The  man  himself  looked  at  Mrs.  Duke  with  a  savage  scowl. 

'My  wife  is  mad,'  he  said.  'Are  we  to  stop  here  all  night  to  listen  to  her 
raving  V 

'  Hark  at  him  !  hark  at  him  !'  cried  Millicent,  hysterically.  l  Is  that  the  voice 
of  George  Duke  ?     Let  those  who  knew  him  answer.' 

The  witnesses  who  had  so  lately  sworn  to  the  man's  identity  were  eilent. 

'Will  any  one  ask  that  man  two  or  three  questions'/'  said  Mrs.  Duke. 

The  barrister  who  had  defended  her  replied  :  '  If  you  really  desire.it,  madam.' 
he  said  ;  '  but  I  warn  you  that ' 

'  I  do  most  earnestly  desire  it.' 

'  Then  I  am  at  your  service.' 

'Ask  him  if  he  has  in  his  possession  a  singie  earring — at  diamond  set  in  Indian 
filagree  work  V 


332  DARRELL  MARKHAM ;  OR 

The  man  took  a  little  canvass  bag  from  his  waistcoat,  and  opening  it,  picked 
but  the  jewel,  and  handed  it  to  the  counsel. 

'  Perhaps  that'll  satisfy  my  wife/  he  said. 

'  The  gem  corresponds  with  your  description,  Mrs.  Duke,'  said  the  barrister. 
'  Are  you  satisfied  V 

'  Not  yet.  Be  so  good  as  to  ask  him  what  my  husband  said  when  he  took  that 
earring  from  me/ 

The  man  laughed. 

'What  should  a  husband  say  when  he  takes  a  keepsake  from  his  wife?' he 
answered ;  'what  could  he  say  but  promise  to  keep  the  treasure  faithfully,  and 
not  give  it  away  to  any  sweetheart  he  may  pick  up  in  foreign  parts  V 
.  'You  hear,  you  hear!'  cried  Millicent;  'he  cannot  tell  me  what  George  Duke 
said  when  he  took  that  trinket  from  me,  seven  years  ago.  He  told  me  that  who- 
ever came  to  me,  calling  himself  my  husband,  and  yet  unable'  to  produce  _  that 
earring,  would  be  an  impostor.' 

'  Then,'  said  the  barrister,  shrugging  his  shouldiers  in  evident  impatience  of 
his  client's  folly,  '  the  very  fact  of  this  person  being  able  to  produce  the  jewel  is 
in  itself  a-proof  of  his  identity.' 

Millicent  put  her  hand  to  her  forehead,  and  was  silent  for  some  moments.  Af- 
ter a  pause,  she  said,  slowly  : 

'.Whoever  murdered  my  husband  carried  away  his  clothes.  That  earring  was 
in  the  pocket  of  his  waistcoat.' 

There  is  an  earnestess  in  the  sincerity  of  the  speaker  which  carries  conviction 
to  the  listener.  Fully  as  Mr.  Horace  Weldon  believed  the  man  standing  before 
him  to  be  George  Duke  of  the  Vulture,  he  was,  in  spite  of  himself,  shaken  by 
the  words  and  by  the  aspect  of  this  quiet  woman,  who  seemed  bent  \>n  knotting 
afresh  the  rope  which  had  but  just  been  loosed  from  about  her.  neck. 

'  Accustomed  to  the  study  of  the  human  countenance,  Millicent's  advocate  bent 
his  grave  eyes  upon  the  face  of  the  man  in  the  witness-box.  From  him  he  looked 
a  little  way  to  the  right,  where  stood  the  worthy  Thomas  Masterson  under  watch 
'  and  ward^  of  one  of  the  officials,  being,  as  we  know,  only  terpporarily  released 
from  prison  to  attend  this  trial.  The  two  men  were  looking  earnestly  at  each 
other,  and  Ihomas  Masterson's  mouth  was  moving  in  a  peculiar  contortion,  which 
jnight  be  either  a  convulsive  motion  of  that  feature  or  a  signal. 

'  How  dare  you  make  signs  to  that  gentleman,  sir  V  exclaimed  the  barrister,  fix- 
ing his  eyes  sternly  upon  Thomas  Masterson. 

*  Let  the  gentleman  give  me  the  countersign,'  answered  Thomas,  i  if  lie  can  ! 
If  he  can't,  he's  never  been  in  the  galleys,  and  he's  not  George  Duke." 

'  He  is  not  George  Duke  ?' 

'No  I've  had  my  suspicions  ever  since  I  first  swore  to  him.  If  he  is  George 
Duke,  let  him  strip  off  his  clothes  and  show  his  bare  shoulders  in  open  court.  If 
he  is  George- Duke,  let  him  show  the  mark  of  the  branding  iron  on  his  back.  Let 
him  show  such  a  mark  as  I  can  show,  for  George  Duke  and  I  were  taken  the  same 
day  and  branded  the  same  day.' 

'  I  suppose  you  will  have  no  objection  to  do  this,  Captain  Duke,'  said  the  bar- 
rister, after*a  pause. 

'  Egad  V  he  cried,  '  I  have  an  objection,  and  a  strong  objection,  too.  Curse 
pie,  gentlemen,  must  a  man  strip  off  his  clothes  in  open  court  and  show  a  shame- 


OR  THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE.  133 

iul  mark  burnt  into  his  flesh  by  the  enemies  of  bis  country,  m  order  to  prove  his 
identity,  after  having  been  sworn  to  by  half  a  dozen  competent  witnesses  ?  Is  a 
man  to  do  this  because  his  mad  wife  chooses  to  deny  her  husband  ?  Gad's  life, 
it's  enough  to  rouge  the  spirit  of  the  veriest  milksop  that  ever  trod  British 
ground/ 

'Come,  come,  sir,'  said  the  judge;  '  I  do  not  wish  you  to  do  anything  unplea- 
sant to  your  own  feelings,  hut  wc  seem  getting  into  the  thick  of  such  a  mystery 
as  we  may  never  be  able  to  clear  up.  Here  are  five  people  who  swear  that,  you 
are  George  Duke,  and  here  are  two  other  people  who  swear  that  you  arc  not.  The 
question  must  be  settled  before  you  leave  the  court,  or  Miliiceut  Duke  cannot  quit 
this  place  with  an  unstained  reputation.  You  have  no  ueec^  to  bare  your  shoul- 
ders in  open  court;  you  can  withdraw  with  two  gentlemen  appointed  by  me,  and 
show  them  the  mark  of  the  branding-iron.' 

The -man  was  silent.  Then,  after  a  long  pause,  he  looked  about  him  with  a 
jscowl,  and  said  : 

4  Suppose  I  deny  that  I  ever  Was  in  the  galleys  V 

1  Then  you  throw  fresh  difficulties  into  the  business,'  replied  the  judge.  '  This 
man,  Thomas  Masterson,  has  sworn  that  he  and  George  Duke  were  taken  to- 
gether on  board  the  Vulture  the  day  she  was" burnt  and  sunk  by  the  French  j  that 
they  were  sentenced  together,  and  escaped  together  early  in  last  January.' 

1  Every  word  of  which  is  gospel  truth,  my  lord,'  said  Thomas,  sturdily. 

'  I  know  who  it  is,'  said  Samuel  Pecker.  '  It's  the  ghost !  The  ghost  that 
asked  the  way  to  Marley  Water — the  ghost  that  met  Master  Darrell  upon  Comp- 
ton  Moor — the  ghost  Miss  Miliiceut  saw  on  the  pier — the  ghost  Squire  Kingwood 
met  in  London — the  ghost  that  called  for  a  glass  of  brandy,  and  paid  for  it,  on 
the  night  of  the  murder !' 

Thomas  Masterson  clasped  his  clenche'd  fist  violently  down  upon  the  wooden 
ledge  before  him. 

'  Ghost !' he  cried.  '  Lord'  save  us,  the  man's  no  ghost.  I  know  who  he  is. 
It's  come  upon  me  all  in  a  moment,  and  I  was  a  fool  not  to  think  of  it  before. 
That  man  is  the  bitterest  enemy  George  Duke  ever  bad  in  his  lite.' 

'•What!  what!  Mr.  Masterson,'  said  the  judge,  while  the  breathless  spectators 
stared  all  agape  at  the  mariner. 

'I  say  that  this  man  is  the  man  George  Duke  hated  worse  than  he  hated  the 
French  captain  who  burnt  his  ship,  or  the  French  judge  who  sent  him  to  the 
-alleys.  I'd  a'most  forgotten  the  story,  for  I've  led  too  hard  a  life  to  think  much 
of  other  men's  family  histories,  but  it  comes  back  upon  me  to-night.  That  man 
is  George  Duke's  twin  brother  !' 

'His  brother'/' 

•  Yes,  his  twin  brother ;  born  in  the  same  hour,  and  so  like  him  that  the 
mother  that  nursed  them  could  never  tell  the  two  apart.  Cap'en  Duke  told  me  the 
whole  story  one  night  when  wc  lay  off  the  coast  of  Africa  in  a  dead  calm.  He 
told  me  how  they  had  fought  together  as  babies  iu  the  cradle,  and  hated  each 
other  as  helpless  orphan  boys.  George  took  to  the  sea  and  ran  away  when  he 
was  fifteen  years  of  age.  The  other  boy,  James,  was  a  thief  and  a  rascal  as  soon 
as  he  could  run  alone;  and  George  had  mauy  a  time  to  pay  for  his  brother's  de- 
linquencies, for  there  wasn't  a  magistrate  or  constable  in  London  that  could  tell 
one  of  the  boys  from  the  other.     James  was  a  liar  and  a  coward,  always  ready  t«> 


134  •'  DARRELL  MARKHAM;  OR 

sneak  out  of  harms  way,  and  leave  brother  George  in  the  lurch ;  and  a  few  such 
tricks  as  these  didn't  go  far  to  mend  the  hatred  there  was  between  'era ;  so  that  when 
George  Duke  took  to  a  seafaring  life,  his  last  words  on  leaving  England  were  the 
words  that  cursed  his  only  surviving  kinsman  -and  twin  brother.  Mind/  added 
Thomas  Masterson,  '  I  give  the  story  to  you  as  the  Cap'en  give  it  to  me.  James 
Duke  and  me  never  clapped  eyes  on  each  other  before  to-day,  but  I  know  of 
them  that  know  him.' 

'  A  singular  story,'  said  the  judge,  'and  a  story  that  goes  to  prove  this  man 
guilty  of  perjury,  unless  he  can  contradict  it,' 

. '  Which  I  dare  swear  he  cannot,  my  lord,'  interposed  Millicent's  counsel.  '  If 
this  man,  who  has  upon  his  porson  the  clothes  worn  by  George  Duke  upon  the 
night  of  his  disappearance,  is  not  George  Duke,  how  does  lie  account  for  the 
possession  of  those  clothes,  my  lord  ?  I  venture  to  say  that  this  man  is  the  mur- 
derer of  his  brother.  He  is  identified  by  the  witness,  Sarah  Pecker,  as  the  man 
who  called  at  the  Black  Bear  within  a  few  hours  of  the  murder.  He  left  a  horse 
at  the  inn  for  three  days,  and  sent  a  messenger  to  fetch  the  animal,  instead  of 
returning  himself  to  do  so.  He  comes  into  this  court  to-day  with  an  improbable 
story,  in  ordef  that  by  passing  himself  off  as  the  husband  of  Mrs:  Millicent 
Duke,  he  may  obtain  possession  of  her  fortune.  Where  has  he  been,  and  what 
has  he  been  doing  since  the  night  of  George  Duke's  disappearance  ?  Let  him 
bring  forward  witnesses  to  answer  these  questions,  and  in  the '  meantime  let  him 
be  placed  in  custody  on  suspicion  of  having  committed  perjury  and  murder.  I 
call  upon  you,  my  lord,  to  order  the  arrest  of  this  man/ 

The  judge  expressed  his  concurrence  in  the  opinion  of  his  learned'  friend,  and 
George  Duke's  shadow,  or  double,  of  twin  brother,  was  removed  from  the  court  to 
lie  in  Carlisle  prison  until  further  inquiries  should  set  him  free,  or  justify  his 
detention  until  the  following  assizes. 

Millicent  Duke  was  carried  out  of  the  court  in  the  strong  arms  of  her  cousin 
Darrell.  The  feeble  frame  had  given  away  at  last,  and  she  had  dropped  into  a 
swoon  while  Thomas  Masterson  was  telling  his  story. 

Early  the  next  day  they  took  her  back  to  Compton-ou-the-Moor,  not  to  tht- 
roomy  old  mansion  in  which  fhe.  murder  had  been  committed,  but  to  a  pleasant 
chamber  in  the  Black  Bear,  where  she  was  faithfully  served  by  Phoebe,  the 
pretty  chambermaid,  Sarah  having  her  hands  full  with  her  sick  son  in  the  garret 
above. 

The  race  of  Henry  Masterson,  alias  Captain  Fanny,  alias  Sir  Lovel  Mortimer, 
was  well-nigh  run:  He  lingered  for  upwards  of  a  fortnight  after  Millicent's  trial, 
and  was  sensible  to  the  last. 

He  was  thunderstruck  upon  hearing  an  account  of  the  proceedings  at  Carlisle. 

'I  fully  thought  that  it  was  James  Duke  who  was  murdered,' he  said, 'and 
that  the  unhappy  lady  had  done  the  deed  in  some  paroxysm  of  madness  or  des- 
pair. I  can  do  much  to  throw  a  light  upon  the  business,  and  to  clear  the  lady's 
name,  and  thus  do  one  act  of  justice  before  I  die ;  but  I  had  best  tell  my  story 
on  oath  before  competent  witnesses,  as  it  may  help  to  hang  this  man  James,  who, 
for  that  matter,  is  better  out  of  the  world  than  in  it,  having  never  been  of  any 
service  to  a  living  creature.' 

That  evening,  in  the  presence  of  his  mother,  Samuel  Pesker,  and  Attorney 
Selgood,  Captain  Fanny  made  a  deposition,  which  was  carefully  written  down  by 


THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  VULTURE.  135 

the  lawyer,  and  afterwards  signed  by  the  sick  man.  In  this  statement  the  high- 
wayman told  how  James  Duke  had  been  first  his  comrade  and  aftewards  his  ser- 
vant. How  he  had  been  from  first  to  last  an  ill-conditioned  fellow,  surnamed  by 
those  who  knew  him  sulky  Jeremiah,  and  sometimes,  by  reason  of  his  constant 
bad  fortune,  unlucky  Jeremiah.  How  the  hatred  between  the  twin  brothers  was 
well  known  to  all  who  were  acquainted  with  either  of  them ;  and  how,  on  hear- 
ing of  George  Duke's  disappearance,  he,  Henry  Mastersou,  had  thought  that. 
James  might  profit  by  the  circumstance  to  pass  himself  off'  for  his  brother,  and 
thus  get  possession  of  the  wife's  fortune.  This  plan  had  been  discussed  and  ma- 
tured in  London,  when  the  highwayman  chanced  to  meet  the  wedding  party  upon 
the  steps  of  St.  Bride's  church.  This  chance  meeting  decided  James  Duke  upon 
immediate  action.  He  started  that  night  for  Compton-on-the-Moor,  having  been 
furnished  with  mouey  for  his  journey  by  Captain  Fanny  ;  and  having  appointed 
to  meet  the  highwayman,  a  week  afterwards,  at  the  Black  Bear,  and  share  with 
his  old  comrade  and  master  the  fortune  acquired  by  the  Imposition. 

This  was  all  tha£  Henry  Masterson  could  tell,  but  it  formed  a  powerful  link  in 
rhe  evidence  against  the  man  lying  in  Carlisle  jail. 

Captain  Fanny  was  sleeping  under  a  tnrf-covered  mound  in  Compton  church- 
yard when  James  Duke  was  placed  in  the  dock  where  Millicent  had  so  lately 
stood,  to  take  his  trial  at  the  Midsummer  assizes  for  the  wilful  murder  of  his 
brother  George. 

Link  by  link  the  chain  of  circumstantial  evidence  was  forged.  Every  step 
of  the  accused  from  London  to  Compton-on-the-Moor  was  tracked  by  one  witness 
and  another ;  but  the  most  damning  of  all  the  evidence  against  him  was  that 
jiven  by  the  ostler  of  a  small  inn  on  a  cross-road  thirty  miles  from  Compton, 
where  James  Duke  had  hired  a  horse,  and  whither  he  had  returned  on  foot  at 
dusk  on  the  evening  after  the  murder,  carrying  with  him  a  bundle,  and  sneaking 
into  the  inn-yard  like  a  thief,  with  his  clothes  all  bespattered  by  blood  and  clay, 
the  foul  marks  being  caused,  he  said,  by  a  fall  from  his  horse,  which  he  had  left 
for  that  reason  at  Compton-on-the-Moor. 

The  boy  who  had  been  sent  to  fetch  the  horse  also  gave  evidence,  and  told 
how  the  prisoner  had  promised  him* a  guinea  on  condition  that  he  refused  to 
answer  any  questions  that  might  be  asked  him  at  Compton. 

So  James  Duke  was  hung  at  Carlisle;  and  a  fair  hcinl-'-tone  was  set  up  at 
Millicent's  command  over  the  disfigured  remains  that  had  been  found  in  the 
pond,  bearing  a  brief  inscription  to  the  memory  of  George  Duke,  who  was  cruelly 
murdered  by  his  twin  brother  on  the  night  of  the  30th  of  January,  17 — . 

Nearly  a  twelvemonth  elapsed  before  Millicent  had  a»y  mind  to  return  to 
Compton  Hall.  She  lived  during  that  time  in  the  little  cottage  which  she  had 
inhabited  during  the  seven  years  of  her  husband's  absence.  The  garden-chamber 
was  razed  to  the  ground,  and  a  new  wing  in  red  brick  built  in  its  stead,  called  at 
first  King  George's,  and  subsequently  the  Nursery  wing.  The  pool  behind  the 
stables  was  filled  and  planted  over  with  laurels  and  holly-bushes.  I  will  refrain 
from  telling  the  reader  how  the  simple  villagers  declared  that  no  shrub  ever 
flourished  upon  that  accursed  spot,  and  will  content  myself  with  Baying  that  the 
place  was  an  exposed  corner  lying  open  to  the  cast  wind.  And  before  Millicent 
returned  to  the  hou°e  in  which  her  ancestors  had  lived  and  died,  she  took  her 


186  DARRELL  MARKHAM;  OR  THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE-  VULTURE. 

part  for  the  third  time  in  the  marriage  ceremony,  and  was  united  by  the  curate 
of  Compton  to  her  cousinDarrell  Markham.  * 

Thomas  Masterson,  convicted  of  a  petty  theft,  died  of  jail-fever  in  Carlisle 
prison  a  few  months  after  the  death  of  his  son  ;  so  it  fell  out  ^hat  Samuel  Pecker 
never  to  his  dying  day  learned  the  true  history  of  the  foreign-looking  oedlar  who 
stole  the  spoons  and  Sarah's  Tompion  watch.  ' 

Is  there  any  need  for  ire  to  tell  of  the  peaceful  happiness  that  reigned  at 
Compton  Hall  ?  There  is  a  picture  still  to  be  seen  in  the  dining-room  of  the  old 
mansion — a  family  group,  common  enough  in  such  a  house,  but  surely. never  dis- 
pleasing to  look  upon.  It  is  the  picture  of  a  young  jHother,  with  pale  golden 
hair,  bending  over  the  cradle  of  a  sleeping  child,  while  Darrell  Markham,  look- 
ing very  handsome  in  a  hunting  costume,  stands  in  the  background  with  a  sturdy 
urchin  of  some  three  years  old  seated  upon  his  shoulder. 


IX  PRESS, 

And  will  be  issued  immediately, 

THE    LIFE 

or 
The  Book  will  contain  a  lilt^ij  executed 

LOTHtafWlPHlC    UKINISS 

OF  TIIS1  LAMENTED  HERO. 
Also,  a  detailed  account  of  the  celebrated 

VALLEY     CAMPAIGN, 

DBfllVEiJ  , 

CTIIE      OFFICIAL      BEPOETS" 
OF  GENERAL  JACKSON. 
PBICE    $5. 


jy         Address  orders  to 

6 


tYKES    &   WADE,    Publishers, 

Richmond,  \'<i. 


Just  Published : 

A  PLEASANT  AND  INTERESTING  NOVELETTE. 
M  A    SGUTHERET    GENTLEMAN. 

3?  E,  X  C  E      ^  1 . 


Address  orders  to 


i¥RES    &    WADE,    Publishers, 

Richmond,    Vu. 


AYRES   &   WADE,   Editors    and    Proprietors.  , 

The  best  Literary  Journal  ever  published  in  the  South. 


^,-JSN 


